Wherever the Heart May Sway
by The Barracking Bard
Summary: Stephen's wife is stolen away by the English one terrible night and he sails to Scotland to avenge her death. However, she survives and later embarks on a journey to look for him. Will their paths cross or will the English destroy it first?
1. Stolen Kisses

_Revised with my beta._

Stolen Kisses

A lithe hand twisted itself in the hair of the man sleeping. Silently, it winnowed itself between the dark strands,, brushing them away from the man's dreaming face. He stirred slightly, giving a light grunt and slowly his eyes opened, facing the woman who lay next to him. He observed her somnolent face next to his, savouring her gentle breathing against his skin. A smile slowly unfurled, emphasising the faint lines which were beginning to become engraved within his weathered skin. The woman returned it and kissed his lips. His lips were chapped and calloused from the many days spent in the cold – but that was just how she liked them.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she murmured, pausing in the combing of his hair.

"I wasn't asleep," he replied quietly. He took her hand away from his hair and cupped it in his own, kissing the thin skin on her wrist. He then nestled it close to his chest; keeping such a delicate thing within his grasp was a treasure to him.

"Your hands are cold," said the man.

"Then I bid thee good sir Stephen McKenna, to warm them up," the woman grinned. The man named Stephen didn't need telling twice. He slowly reached for her other hand and placed them both against the warmth of his chest, which was dusted with flecks of dark hair. The woman gave a long sigh of pleasure and snuggled closer to him, engrossing herself in his emanating heat.

"Mmm, that's better," she replied, draping one arm around him. She gave a small laugh. "I can feel your heart beating, your _warrior _heart."

"Oh, my _warrior_ heart now?" Stephen repeated, humour thick in his tone. "Call me a soppy old fool, but you, Meghan Mckenna turn me soft!",

"Would you rather me love a beast for a man? Perhaps one who sleeps in his own drunken dreams every night?" Meghan teased, quiet laughter cracking her serene tone. "Swaying into the hut from too much ale? Hmm?"

"Twice that has happened," Stephen chuckled sheepishly, giving Meghan a playful poke in the ribs, "and did you ever complain?" His face faltered into a blank look. "Did you? I can't remember … "

"Too right you were," Meghan laughed, "I was muttering constantly under my breath and the only response I got from you was, 'Calm thee down woman and help me get my boots off.' I said to you, 'I wouldn't touch those filthy things with a ten foot pole,' and then what did you go and do …?" She paused as a dry reminiscent smile angled her lips, "…Fell asleep from where you sat in your chair. So I left you to it, though your bloody loud snores echoed throughout the whole night. Kept Logan and I up."

Meghan gave a sharp exasperated sigh. There was a moment's silence, when they both simply looked at each other, their faces taut from threatening laughter.

It then exploded a second later and they hastily attempted to stifle their sniggers, lest they disturbed the dreaming child who lay across the room.

They both wriggled around restlessly like children as they clamped each other's hands over their mouths to stem the laughter.

"You'll wake him," hissed Meghan playfully. She propped herself up on her pillow and studied Stephen. He faced her, while lying on his side.

She could see his nipples folded up against one another, poking up from the folds of the threadbare sheets of the bed ... _everything_ about him was perfect. She loved him: from every scar sinuously drawn into his skin, to every crevassed line dimpling his goofy smile. The threat of sentimentality began to stab at her mind and Meghan tried to shove it in the back of her thoughts. She failed.

She put a hand to her face to push back her hair as she felt Stephen stare at her. _Look away you silly man! Don't make me push you off this bed … _

It always amused him that his Meghan became so embarrassed in intense moments such as this, and just as he expected, he saw a flush begin to glow in her cheeks. It clashed with her hair, but he cared not.

He reached out his hand and placed Meghan's in one of his own. With the other he traced the angle of her small cheek with a calloused finger and slowly brought her face to his. He felt her press her lips to his own, lingering momentarily on his bottom lip, nibbling it gently.

Stephen slid his hand around her waist and pulled her to him, pleasantly surprised when she did not object to the rough handling. She met his gaze with one of similar need, the corner of her full lips crooking into a smile of encouragement as well as anticipation. The heat of their skin between them created a delicious friction and finally Stephen could bear it no more and captured her mouth in a kiss of intense passion. Her lips opened beneath him as he began exploring her mouth, enjoying it more when her hands wrapped around his neck and pulled him closer to her. Her soft body molded perfectly to his own as he plundered her, his tongue dueling lustily with her own.

For her seemingly delicate disposition, she matched him with each thrust and parry of this sensuous combat, until a kiss had so much power over him he could barely breathe. He allowed his hands to ind the shape of her breast and began kneading. A small sound escaped her and he knew it was not pain. The soft, round flesh of her breast beneath his fingers made him growl under his breath, as he began to gently envelope her body with showers of kisses. Meghan's breaths came in short pleasurable gasps -

"NOOO!! NO! NOT MY CHILD!! Don't drag him away! No! No! _NO!!_"

A high-pitched, wild scream ripped through the air with the force of an axe hitting stone. Stephan and Meghan started violently in surprise, both nearly banging their heads together from within their tight embrace.

Meghan turned a wild-eyed face to Stephen.

"What …?" she gasped, her jaw hanging open.

"God Almighty," said Stephen in dismay.

"What's going on?" Meghan's voice was barely more than a whisper, "…a child's in danger?"

Logan …

The cry of the woman had sparked fresh fears inside of Meghan's head. Instinctively, she bolted out of the bed and raced across the room, only to find her child's bed empty!

She gave a long, distressed moan which transgressed into a sob and she sank weakly to her knees, her trembling hands covering her face. Behind her, Meghan felt Stephen get up from the bed and dash over.

"He's –" Meghan tried to say, as she peeked one eye through her fingers up at Stephen; his face was taut with panic and fear. They both started again as another shrill scream shattered the night and suddenly the ground started shake with the pummel of hooves.

"Get back and stay in the hut," Stephen said quickly, trying in vain to keep his voice steady. "I'm going to look for him."

"It's the English," Meghan gasped, as tears began to trickle down her cheeks. "He's out there, all alone, why – why – my child – my boy" She began to sob violently into her hands, rocking herself back and forth as she knelt on the ground.

"Meghan, don't panic," Stephan begged, as he observed his wife's distressed state with mounting fear, "I'm – I'm going to look, now please – please just stay hidden." The moment was far too terrible - strange men, brandishing metal swords and crying like wild savages into the night, and every turn you tried to take, you were faced with the sheer prospect of Death … it was no place for a child.

He briefly stroked her shoulders and he reached for his broad sword, which was propped against a table.

It glinted welcomingly in the moonlight as he held it firmly in his hand. He felt a sudden rush of determination. Soon, more screams and yells of terror began to fill the air and without a second glance Stephen disappeared through the wooden door, leaving Meghan swathed in the dark shadows of the hut.


	2. Where is Logan?

**Author's Note:** A big thanks to my first two reviewers: bubblymuggle and lovebuggy. I hope this chapter answers any queries you might have. I hope everyone enjoys this next installment.

Please put forth Constructive criticism!

**Chapter Two**

Nothing in the stillness of the hut was uttered, as soon as Stephen left.

All was but a crumbling bridge of tension inside of Meghan's mind, as she waited with bated breath behind the table. Flashes of flames were seen combusting through the cracks of the meagre wooden walls and shouts and frenzied yells of pain cracked through the air.

It took all of Meghan's self restraint to not leap out from her hiding place and scream her lungs out,. Her yearning for the return of her Stephen and Logan was unbearable.

Yet the child was lost, long gone into the newly sprung battle field inflicted by the English. And how would he escape? How would Stephen find him amidst the panic of the village? The fear was like an icy knife being plunged into her heart.

The wait was agonising.

As soon as Stephen stepped outside the hut, he was plunged into a living nightmare.

The village was in uproar.

Englishmen mounted upon horses, charged into huts and knifed, stabbed and bludgeoned all in their path.

Belches of fire was billowing into the air from the huts, as scattered soldiers, holding flaming torches, lit the huts.

The stifling fear seemed to rip the Irishman's heart right out of his chest.

His blue eyes scanned the huts frenziedly for a child, running aimlessly for their life. But his concentration was distracted by the fleeing people of the village, as they left limply clutching what possessions they could reach.

'Logan!'

Stephen tried to yell out his lad's name but his voice was drowned out from the screams.

'LOGAN!'.

Nothing.

He desperately darted from hut to hut nearby, dodging the sight of the English and ducking from streams of flames.

'LOGAN!' Stephen again yelled into the night.

His eyes began to bulge with mounting trepidition. Sweat was beginning to crawl down his face and mud was smeared across his forehead. The sword in his hand felt useless and heavy. But he would not consider the worse … not yet. It was far too grave. He was a fighter.

' LOGAN MCKENNA! COME HERE NOW!' he hollered madly.

Suddenly he felt somebody grab him from behind. Instinctively he whirled round, his axe aloft but came face to face with one of his local friends, Connor. The thin man did not flinch from Stephen's risen sword and with one arm, forced him to turn away from entering the fray of the battle that stirred in the village. There was something in Connor's hasty manner which unnerved him.

'Stephen, you will not find your son here,' he said, his breathing coming in sharp and ragged gasps.

'What?' said Stephen dumbly, gazing at is friend as if he hadn't seen him before.

Connor took Stephen sharply by the arm, his legs charging up to run as fast as they could muster.

'Have you seen him?' exclaimed Stephen again, as the two men ran down a steep bank. A shower of flames exploded from a hut up ahead and the terrible cry of a woman was heard. They ran on even faster and Stephen impatiently waited for his friend to reply.

'Have you seen my son? Answer me!' Stephen said, his voice beginning to lose control.

'Yes! I'm taking you back to your hut and I saw young Logan running around there – '

'You _saw - ?' _

'- Surrounded by a gaggle of English bastards – '

'_WHAT?' _

Connor had no time to respond because Stephen had already propelled off on ahead, driven by this awful news. He would not contemplate it. Logan, Meghan, Logan, Meghan – images of their bodies stained with blood, sprawled on the muddy ground with their internal organs crudely hanging out, threatened to drive him insane.

He turned a corner, around a charred hut when he heard the most terrible scream of his life. It was not a scream of pain but a loud, wild, shriek of agonizing grief. The piercing, shrill noise seemed to wrench him of every emotion to the core, and it was with great caution, that he dared to look what was causing it.

Outside of his hut, kneeling on the floor and held firmly by two Englishmen, Stephen saw Meghan in a state he thought he never would. Her whole body was shaking with paroxysms of grief, as she tried desperately in vain to be free of their steel grip.

But her wild, tear-stained face was staring horrified at something on Stephen's far left. Before he could emerge, his glance strayed to where his wife was gawking at in her terror.

The form of a small child lay lifeless upon the ground, cloaked in mud at the feet of a portly English soldier. From what Stephen could see, blood was steadily pouring from the clumped strands of the child's auburn hair.

A wild tornado of insanity ripped through Stephen. He had no time to contemplate on how to appear. He simply charged from behind the hut, screaming a frenzied, animalistic cry, and he propelled unthinkingly towards the band of English soldiers, waving his sword madly about his head.

Meghan lifted her gaze in alarm at his arrival, even though she was dazed by her anguish. More English soldiers appeared from nowhere; their swords raised and joined the gang. She surveyed the attack on Stephen in horror. She tried to scream his name but her voice was drowned by the loud clanging of swords. She was wilting in her despair.

A second later, they had deftly surrounded Stephen but he was slashing, chopping and bashing anything that moved. Soon a pile of dead soldiers were strewn about the ground. One soldier remained. He circled Stephen stealthily like a wolf, whose blue eyes were maddened slits of fury.

'The Almighty tells me you're going to die a lonely man,' sneered the English soldier. The soldiers which held Meghan neighed with laughter at their comrade's words. Meghan gave a moan of fright and dug her heels into the ground, trying to block out all reality.

Stephen tilted his head to one side, his eyes bulging again in a newly incensed anger that he had never experienced before.

'No,' he hissed, a manic smirk lifting his lips, 'the Almighty tells me your limbs are going to be slewed from here to kingdom come!'

The English soldier gave a bark of laughter and he raised his sword in the air. It briefly caught the light of the burning village, looking momentarily as if it was on fire, and soon he and Stephen were locked in fierce combat.

There was a brief moment when both swords clanged together, in a motion which forced the soldier and Stephen to come face to face.

'We're going to slay your pretty wife,' he leered, making loathsome kissing noises, 'she wouldn't bad either way, corpse _or_ living whore.' The two soldiers who held Meghan jeered with laughter, which was overlapped with Meghan's horrified screams of his name.

She stared wild eyed at the fight, through the red strands of her matted hair, too stricken to move.

Stephen shot his opponent another maddened grin of his insane anger, and he abruptly forced his sword off the English soldier's with all the strength he could muster. He whirled and with one vigorous strike, he swung his sword to earth, slicing cleanly through the man's chest. But he was too late.

As soon as the man's body fell to the ground, he heard Meghan scream.

There was an angry yell and a loud 'thunk' and Stephen saw Meghan fall limply to the floor, at the feet of a soldier whose sword was raised. A stream of blood spilled from her back. Laughing, the two English soldiers who had held her, flung her limp body carelessly onto the back of a nearby horse.

Before he could move, they quickly mounted and with an aggressive kick of the stirrups, the beast started off into the night.

Stephen's legs had suddenly found their use, and without thinking, he sped off after the horse. He fought desperately through the maze of the devastated debris of the charred huts, following the high, derisive laughter of the soldiers. But it was no use, they were far beyond his reach. The horse was too fast.

'No – no – no – no … not on the Almighty' Stephen muttered feverishly, with each hurried step he took.

He cared not his legs were screaming their protest or his lungs ripping from every breath, for no way in hell will lose his wife – not his Meghan. He would not let them, fate will not allow it, the _Almighty_ would notallow it. They may have taken his son, but not Megan, not –

'Stephen!'

Someone was yelling his name but he did not seem to register it.

He realised he was standing on top of a hill, gazing blearily into the night. An icy wind pierced his skin, whipping his raven hair into his face as he stared in the direction the horse had gone, carrying his wife. Long gone into the distance. The night had swallowed them.

He slowly turned his head, his chest rising rapidly with heavy breaths, as he heard the heavy footsteps of somebody approaching up the hill.

A familiar thin silhouette emerged: it was Connor.

He limped over to Stephen, due to a severe cut on his leg. It was cleanly ripped through his trousers and bleeding profusely but Connor's gritty, pale eyes were fixed upon Stephen's.

For several moments, both men simply looked at each other hard, as if one new exactly what the other was thinking. None daring to speak.

'I know she's gone,' Connor said gruffly, 'but what is it you think you're going to do?'

He cringed as his leg gave a wave of pain.

Stephen stared at Connor, with his wide, maddened eyes.

'I'm going to save her,' he said quietly, 'I'm going to find that horse and I'm going to save her. If not, I will bring back her body and bury her in the blessed grounds of this village.'

Connor said nothing for a while and he squinted stoically into the distance, breathing deeply. The man was too built up with his own torment of emotions to let any be revealed upon his face.

'I will not rest even when the English are dead,' he said, 'my daughter's bodies lie mangled upon this earth.'

There was a quiet fierceness which was tinged in Connor's tone and Stephen knew only too well how he felt.

'Your son Stephen – '

'- I know about my son,' Stephen overrode fiercely, his voice shaking, 'I'm going to bury him. And I will find my Meghan and bury her next to him. I will place a wreath of daisies about her pretty neck and sh - she will sleep in peace, in the arms of the Almighty. Next to our little Logan.'

Cutting emotion was beginning to claw at Stephen's throat and he fought all strength to stop the hot tears which were beginning to sting his unblinking eyes.

He breathed in deeply; inhaling in the raw, November wind and he wiped his face, disguising all anguish.

Connor bowed his head slowly.

'When …' he began to say but his voice faltered. 'Before the attack, I saw Logan fighting with a stick outside a hut nearby, slipping outside as soon as you and Meghan went to bed. The attack might have scared the lad away before you could do anything." Connor heaved a low sigh, "he had a stubbornness to fight. An admirable trait when trained, but it was not this that lead him to this death; many children that were safe in their huts, now lie dead. Mine included."

The news of his boy's last few moments alive struck Stephen's mind with a force more powerful than any sword. He was too drained both mentally and physically to respond to Connor's words and Connor was wise enough to expect an answer.

As if in a dream, Stephen slowly made his way past Connor back to the village.

Back to what strewn remnants he had left lingering of his life.


	3. Caged

_Author's Note: thanks to bubblymuggle and her reviews. So I present to you all chapter three. Reviews much appreciated!_

**Chapter Three**

How do you go back to something that once was?

How do you paint back the memories of all what is good?

Stephen had never experienced such grave years. His grief was indescribable and internally set. He had lost everything that had mattered most in only one night. The memory was as patent as an open wound, now crudely engraved deeper into the pits of his mind. It was as fresh, hurtfully cruel and as vivid from three years ago. Mourning had been a long and silent process. He could never rid the feeling of the clammy, cold skin of his dead son, as he wrapped him carefully with blankets upon the table.

He could never rid himself of the vision of his son's blank, slack-jawed face, gazing glassy eyed up at the roof of the hut. A face that was once so alive with life and wonder, now stained and contorted with a rainbow of dried blood and angry, purple bruises.

And furthermore, he could certainly never rid himself of the moment when they placed little Logan's fragile, four year old body into his roughly dug grave, set into the unforgiving, iron-cold ground of Ireland. Never to awake. Forever to be rested.

The funeral was short and sweet, just as Logan's life had been.

Soon after that time, Stephen had taken to hiding in the darkness of his hut. So much so, he became hidden within the dark blanket of the pain in his mind. His own meagre grave. It was in the very stillness of these times, when he sat for hours upon end staring unseeingly ahead of him, did flows of tears come. Tears which merely made small visible channels down upon the surface of his dirtied cheeks.

He pondered incessantly on how to retrieve his wife's body. But he did not think he could handle the horror again of transporting her butchered form, cleaning out her wounds and burying her. Who knew of what unspeakable torment her delicate body had been surrendered too in the company of the soldiers. He pushed the thought back into the small, dark place of his mind.

A year later, Stephen learned that his friend Connor had passed. The severe injury on his friend's leg had crippled him after the attack on the village. Months later it became relentlessly infected and so Connor was capitulated to vicious fevers and violent, lung-wrenching coughs. Thus, the man died, one winter's eve.

His wife had never experienced so much agony and it was like reliving a nightmare when Stephen watched her mourn as Connor's body was lowered into the ground.

Nothing. All that was ever left was nothing. And so Stephen was left to linger in the chill, soundless void of his life.

- - - - - - - - - -

The smooth surface in the puddle was disturbed as the mare's hoof plunged into it.

It trotted grudgingly along a roughly, hewn highway, as its rider kept a stern hold upon the reigns.

'Steady,' warned a man's voice, 'pull any harder, your horse's head will fall off.'

'Christ's sake, I'm doing all I can,' replied a woman, sounding annoyed.

The man heaved a laugh.

'All that you can? My dear Meghan, all that you can do concludes with one spectacularly … _failing_'

'Oh I daresay that falling on my arse and getting covered in mud would not be a shame. '

'Indeed, that would not be a failure. You have quite the pretty arse.'

'Steady on,' laughed Meghan, though her cheeks burned with a twinge of embarrassment, 'you're a simpering fool, Latham.'

'Where is it you say you're leading me on this waning evening?' sighed the man called Latham, 'I am much better accustomed to sitting in my quarters with a bottle of ale and watching the world go by.'

'Sloth is what many would call that,' Meghan gently chastised, tossing back her red hair over her shoulder, 'and I am leading you to my home village.'

'Pardon me? Your _village?_' Latham blustered, his brown eyes expanding with incredulity, _'_You stated you were taking me to a hill with an apparent glorious view'

'I was joking,' said Meghan, sighing at his pompous reaction. She watched Latham's round face split into a half smile, his feathery flaxen hair glowing a burnt sienna in the scarlet sun, which helmed the sweeping horizon.

'And for your simple pleasure I have agreed to accompany you,' he muttered.

'Men,' Meghan mumbled under her breath, 'I have long reached the conclusion you are all stubbornly lazy.'

'Indeed, most women make that assumption. We should not be too long; Alden awaits you, ready for his mother to put him to bed.'

A nerve prickled restlessly in Meghan's forehead at the mention of the name and she rubbed her temples to prevent a stream of stress. A sharp sigh of frustration issued from her before she could stop it. Clear disdain was written on her face and her gaze furtively snatched onto Latham's. He was watching her reaction with suppressed austerity. Sensing this, Meghan gave a faint moan.

'He can wait,' she said listlessly, stifling a large yawn to cut through the uncomfortable moment, 'get his Lordship to attend to it for once.' Latham's face did not flicker; he continued to study her with stern scrutiny.

'His Lordship has not granted you your freedom or life to watch his son become estranged to his own mother,' he said, his words heavy and stern in every vowel, which suggested they had covered this topic many times, 'You are ridiculously lucky, any other man in his power would have you left for dead or have you simply killed. You are lucky Aldrich's heart remains compassionate, yet sometimes too soft I will admit, seeing as it is only your son is all that you have left. So be grateful.'

Meghan's face contorted with fury and her cheeks began to flame from being spoken too like an ill-mannered toddler. _Aldrich. _Lord Aldrich. He was an old man, turning senile from long hard years of battle and loneliness, wishing now to fulfil it. A long, thick scar was stripped down her back from when a group of soldiers had battered her not so long ago.

Flashes of _that _night appeared in her mind's eye: her limp, unconscious body had been taken to the nearest garrison for the noble as a "prize". Or more deeply, an opportunity for the aging noble to finally conceive a child.

Moreover, she was told she was ruthlessly flung at the feet of the noble, and that a look of disgust had paled visibly upon his crinkled face. He had then instructed for Meghan's wounds to be cleaned.

The dried blood caked upon her body mingled with dirt had made the withering Aldrich, feel sick. Events after that took an uncomfortable turn. The old man had chosen to help clean Meghan's wounds himself, in a bid that they could develop bond as she recovered. Many nights he sat beside her bed, staring with an uncomfortable intensity at Meghan's weak state.

She could still remember his orb like eyes almost glowing orange from the burning brackets of the room, lining his thin, towering form. She could almost remember his ragged, uneven breathing as his wrinkled hands gently dabbed at her cuts. And then, one dreadful night, as Meghan lay half-asleep, drained from the pain prickling in her half-healing wounds, the old man's hands travelled slowly to her wrists.

He had forced himself slowly on top of her, careful not to harm any of her body. Then, Meghan remembered the pair of gummy lips which had pressed themselves clumsily to her own, making a slow channel down the hilt of her neck. Meghan had been too weak to resist and also too somnolent to acknowledge what was truly happening … as Aldrich knew full well.

'Shhh,' he had croaked as Meghan made a slight moan of protest, as her hair was brushed aside by a pair of lined hands. They then slowly began to weakly caress her busts.

'No,' Meghan murmured drowsily, 'not now ….'

At the time, Meghan had mused vaguely through her tiredness, if all that was occurring was just a bleary dream, happening in another world.

The hands that were touching certain parts of her body had triggered vivid memories of pleasurable and secret times. Hands that were once of her lover. Hands of her Stephen. Firm hands which had wound themselves upon her body, as skillfully and as passionate as any warrior, as if they did not need a mind telling what they should do.

However, these hands were alien. They had then begun to press firmly onto her shoulders, though still moving with a gentle carefulness. It was as if Aldrich had been planning on how to make love to his first woman through all his hard and lonely years of warfare, though failing slightly due to his waning physique.

'I can't …' Meghan moaned quietly again, as she moved dejectedly on her pillow, burying her face into its material, 'S-Stephen …'

'No, my dear …' Aldrich had muttered softly into her ear, 'I'm sorry … Stephen is dead … he is no longer here.'

_He is no longer here._

Meghan stared hard at the mud smattered ground as the memory coursed through her, rattling at her bones like poison. A silence drifted between her and Latham, who was watching her closely.

A long, whistling wind whipped through the air, searing at her skin. Latham's expression softened slightly and the contours on his face angled into a sad smile.

'You cannot change what has happened,' Latham said, 'but now you have a son to move on with, after all that has been lost.'

Meghan's voice got caught in her throat as she acknowledged this. She stared unseeingly at Latham mounted upon his palomino and vaguely nodded. He was dead. Killed by the English. He would be buried next his little son Logan in the cold, iron ground. Father and son finally together, at peace for an eternity.

And now here she was, with yet another son, with the man who had overseen for the villages to be attacked. She could not bring herself to show any love towards the wretched old man that he was, and more so, to their son Alden she had conceived. A bastard child.

'We ought to get be going,' Meghan spoke finally. She lifted her head and Latham saw a ghostly sadness stir within her eyes. It made the soldier shift uncomfortably in his saddle and he ignorantly ignored all stabbing thoughts of empathy in his head.

He was a man of discipline and one that had obeyed orders all his life, learning not to show powerful emotion and just mutual respect. Maybe, like the old noble Aldrich, that was why he had never had a wife, only ever choosing to look upon women as weaker beings that needed protecting. He hastily cast aside that musing too; it was entirely unnecessary.

Then, both he and Meghan turned their steeds around from the highway and headed toward the garrison in the distance, as the darkening evening closed in around them.


	4. The Almighty Says Scotland

_Author's Note: Well I've updated faster than I intended. Meh … it's the holidays. And this time this chapter is slightly less depressing than the others._

_Be constructive guys!_

**Chapter Four**

Heavy breathing ruptured from within Stephen's chest as he awoke one morning. For all it's twisting power, it seemed to claw at his very lungs, as he tried to heave the phlegm up past his throat, forcing him to make rather repulsive throaty, snorting noises. He doubled over, almost rolling out of the bed as the coughs suddenly constricted his chest.

'Oh, he's awake,' said an amused voice from the door. Stephen's eyes snapped open and blearily unsheathed a small dagger towards the source of the noise. However he lowered his hand as he recognised that it was Anice, the widow of his friend Connor. Her plump form was illumianted by the pearly morning sunlight. Her hands were placed upon her hips as she surveyed Stephen's bleary state, torn between both amusement and exasperation.

'Drinking again, I see,' she chastised, shaking her head as Stephen clumsily got to his feet, as Anice coolly studied the bottle littered floor. He grunted a reply and made his way over to her, combing his fingers distractedly through his dishevelled hair.

She watched him closely with her eyebrows raised.

Although she was a stocky, short woman, many men had quelled under her scrutiny. Including the steadfast Connor.

'My apologies Anice,' said Stephen quietly as he scanned the village huts languidly behind her. The light in his blue eyes, no more than a vague glimmer.

'No apologies about it if you're not going to look after yourself,' she said, drinking up his rugged appearance 'come, I have news for you.'

'News?' grunted Stephen sceptically; as they started up the hill the village was built on, 'what kind of news?'

'Good news,' Anice affirmed wryly, 'today you will help me prepare for a wedding for one of my nieces. And don't you roll your eyes,' she added sternly as Stephen made to make a groan, 'I have not made an empty promise to Connor to watch one of his best friends decline from all what has happened. You're a man of strength. Now act like one.'

Stephen raised his eyebrows at her but it had been a long time Anice had mentioned her dead husband's name. But slowly and gradually she was rebuilding all from what had happened. She had buried her daughters, her husband and gradually burying her grief with setting herself new tasks to accomplish.

Yet deep within, Stephen could not help feel incomplete. Something was missing.

'You may also find other things rather than food to your taste at the ceremony,' smiled Anice, a knowing glint in her grey eyes. Stephen raised his eyebrows at her again but a vague laugh escaped him. Anice nodded approvingly.

'And make sure you keep that smile on your face young man,' she said, waggling her finger, resembling wildly the look of a flustered hen, 'God only knows you're going to be all doom and gloom at the celebrations. It would even make God himself want to turn away and hail you down with lightening bolts, and I know that, even though you talk to him on daily basis. Honestly.'

She shook her head and carried on up the hill, lifting her grey skirts from the soaked mud. Stephen did not reply but laughed genially all the same. Though, automatically he looked up into the sky and allowed a grin to unfurl.

It had become a cemented habit to talk to the Almighty. Due to the blow of losing his wife, child and now his closest friend he had desperately sought comfort and counsel in his prayers to the Lord, keeping him his closest companion and personal advisor. He wanted the strength to get over his grief, and yet even though he still felt freshly torn, he thanked the Lord for granting him the strength to live each day.

Finally they reached the outskirts of the village, and they entered a field which was swarming with people, busily attending to jobs. Two large tables were constructed diagonally facing a large space which Stephen presumed would be an area for joyous dancing. Colours of food were being placed upon the tables and bright banners were hung above it, festooning the scene to appear hospitable and festive.

'The ceremony begins in under an hour,' stated Anice and she brought Stephen over to a table full of fresh fruit. 'Eat as much as you want but chopping it onto the platters would be a real help,' she said, handing Stephen a rosy apple and a short knife. He took them vaguely from her, nodding his head in thanks.

Suddenly behind him there was a blast of music, making him jump. The atmosphere transcended into a merry, light tone, immediately wiping away any nimbus of gloominess in the air. The musicians had arrived.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The silhouette of a woman stood resolutely beside a stone hewn window, gazing blankly into the distance across the wild, untamed plains. The cold, greying clouds which brewed in the sky seemed to reflect glassily off her unfocused eyes. Another day. Another bleak day. Confined to her own quarters lest she be leered and glared at by the soldiers of the grand garrison where she dwelled. The fairness of Ireland which lay out of her window seemed to insult her, every feral hill and jagged rock grazed grimly up at her being. She was her own prisoner. Locked away by her own contaminating fears and looming miseries.

Suddenly she felt a gentle tugging of her garment. She cast her eyes down and saw a four year old toddler grinning up at her, whilst holding a particularly ugly toy horse. The thing had been carved by Aldrich himself and to Meghan it wildly resembled a debauchedly, distorted cow rather than a proud, strapping stallion. She smirked humourlessly.

'Mother will you play?' Alden said, his pale eyes very much like his fathers wide with enquiry.

Meghan lifted her gaze from the child and stared distractedly around the room.

'Don't pull mother's skirt,' she murmured, pulling her lower garments sharply out of the toddler's grasp.

'All right,' smiled Alden oblivious to her cold manner, 'will mother play later then?'

'Er … yeah,' Meghan muttered vaguely, as she rubbed her face in stress, 'go and play, in - in the corner … '

Alden skipped happily from her company and wandered over to his converted little nursery in the corner of the room. He sat down and contentedly immersed himself in a game of "horse and rider" with the toy. She watched him closely. Just like her previous son, the child had inherited her auburn hair and more annoyingly a love for literature. So the child was a born scholar she mused dryly. Well Aldrich can see to that.

Silently, she left the toddler's company and disappeared from the room. She wandered through the many corridors, inside the main garrison quarters to a lonely room where she knew Aldrich kept his liqueur. She quenched for a long, hearty swig of ale; that ought to keep the gloominess pressing at her brain at bay.

The door handle of the room moved and a figure entered. By the uneven stumps of footsteps, Meghan recognised it was Aldrich. Her heart sank.

'Ah my dear Meghan,' he croaked. He was clad in an ill-fitted armour which hung off his body like dead skin off his body. It was smeared with smatters of mud. His wispy grey hair was bedraggled and hung like loose curtains, framing his long face. He was fresh from an errand of fighting.

'Fighting?' enquired Meghan as she studied him, carefully closing the liqueur cupboard draw silently shut behind her.

'Yes,' smiled Aldrich thinly. He swept over to the cupboard and pulled out a large bottle of ale. He uncorked it and hungrily drank straight from the top, whilst holding the bottle at a precarious angle. Streams of ale began to slide down his neck, seeping into his red collar. When he had consumed it all, he wiped his mouth and banged it on a nearby table.

'I was in need of that,' he said, staring at her.

'Indeed,' Meghan replied tonelessly.

'Yet more control has been needed in the lower villages. King Edward has set me a weighty task, I do not think it is feasible but still I will try. He keeps my being in high esteem, granting me this large stone garrison, which indeed may become a working town if I set my sights on it,' he uttered a sigh, 'Commanding has not been one of my favourite ways to spend my days. Would God rather have chosen me to be the humble farmer in his field? Or maybe the lowly beggar on the streets of London? We will never know. Anyway enough garble from me, how has your day been so far my darling?'

'Bleak,' Meghan replied stonily, pervading his confession with a dismissive response.

'By that tone of voice I would suspect,' laughed Aldrich, 'have you been playing with little Alden?'

'No,' said Meghan shortly.

'Why?'

'He sleeps.'

'Oh, very well!' he exclaimed, 'will you sleep also?'

'It's midday,' Meghan said, frowning.

'Will you nap with me – put an old man to his bed?' asked Aldrich, winking; the alcohol was beginning to transgress his brain. So much so he did not hear Meghan's noise of disgust or feel her leave the room.

'I've sent an escort to give you some supper - I mean tea,' said Aldrich blearily, his voice echoing incoherently off the stone corridor walls as Meghan retreated down them, 'please eat ….'

She shook her head and headed back to the nursery room, and slammed the door behind her.

- - - - - - - - - -

The evening atmosphere was quenched with merriment. The quivering heart-thumping notes of the flute and the joyful, spinning notes of the fiddle garlanded the air, spreading its wings of infectious sounds into the hearts of the villagers as they danced joyfully the night away with each song. People sat on benches, happily watching the scene, applauding loudly at the end of each song. Stephen was among them. For the first time in years, a precious spark of happiness that he thought he would never feel, erupted inside him. And he blessed it.

The wedding had been an extremely wonderful affair. Although, it strongly reminded him of when he and Meghan had married some six years ago, he could not help feel pleased for the newly wedded couple. He had clapped happily along with the rest, smiling largely as they shared their first kiss before the priest, their faces beaming with adoration for one another.

'Oof! I'm all pooped out!'

Stephen swivelled his head and saw a very tipsy Anice meandering her way towards him. She almost tripped from her ceremonial dress but Stephen caught her deftly with his hands.

'Oh thank you very much,' she said, as he helped her sit beside him. Her round cheeks were ruddy from the influence of a few hearty drinks but her grey eyes remained as firm as ever. 'Have you danced yet Stephen?' she asked him.

Stephen took a large swig of ale from his flagon and gave a nod.

'Aye,' he smiled, 'indeed I have, Mister Daniel's daughter certainly has a way with rhythm.'

Anice grinned.

'And so it has been said,' she said to him, a long contented sigh escaped her and she gazed misty-eyed at the married couple dancing gently with one another in the centre of the crowd. A stray tear of happiness slid down her plump cheeks. 'From the dying shoots of an old tree, shredded with despair, a blooming flower appears.'

Stephen gave a weak laugh and toasted her remark, though choosing not to elaborate.

'Aye … indeed' he muttered. He knocked back another sip and his face relapsed into a grim expression as they both studied the dancing in silence. Like the spinning figures of the people, Stephen felt his mind whirring with streams of indistinguishable thoughts. Happiness. What was it that would make him truly smile again? Indeed he smiled, beamed, grinned and laughed as he looked on as people and friends from the village bore children and wed into hopeful years of bliss. But all that was only a mere coating of peace, smothered atop his tortured heart.

Injustice and sheer grief stabbed at him night and day whenever his thoughts strayed to the English and deep within, the same maddening hatred rattled through him just as it had done when the English had destroyed all that he had loved dearest. He was restless. He was angry. He could not stay.

As if from another world, he heard the distant resonance of joyful clapping. He gave Anice a sideways glance and saw that the merry woman was clapping along to a particular joyful, rapid dance. The woman had her peace. It was shining on her face and dancing in her eyes. Watching her family bloom and caring for others would fulfil any aching pains of neglect and emptiness. She did not need the thirst to fight to be rid of her pain.

'Anice,' Stephen said quietly. He called her again as she was too immersed in clapping happily along to the song.

'Anice.'

She turned. 'Aye Stephen?' she asked, her widely spread smile fading slightly as she saw Stephen's grave expression. He felt a twinge of guilt. He would make this short and sweet.

'Anice, I leave for Scotland on the morrow.'

'What?'

'I cannot stay here.'

Anice stopped clapping and she stared closely at Stephen, moistening her upper lip in thought. Finally she spoke and gave a heavy nod.

'If it is what you really want,' she said to him sadly, placing an arm on his shoulders. Stephen nodded silently to her question.

'I will only ever feel I have done myself justice if I avenge my family's deaths. I say this to only you because you are a wise woman and a good friend. You would understand. The Almighty points his finger over the sea.'

Anice's solemn face nodded. She bowed her head, staring at her hands which were cupped limply in her lap.

'I understand entirely Stephen,' she said soberly, 'I can't stop you from leaving.'

Eventually, after a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, the woman lifted her head and examined Stephen intently. His roguish face was illuminated to its highest degree of detail by the blazing bonfires which surrounded the ceremony; his cheerful smile, his unshaven face, his unkempt raven hair – everything seemed identical from when she could remember from his youth, save his eyes.

The blue set within them which had once been so bright had been extinguished. All that remained were hollow, dark tunnels of cold, blue stone. Thus, indeed she hated to comprehend it but - He was dead. He was a dead man. And Anice knew that such eyes as his would be once again ignited, not by joy but by his lurking anger. A deep, internal lurking anger which had been simmering dangerously over the years. Only yet to be unleashed.

'And who or what are you going to find in Scotland?' she said to him, pushing her dark musings aside. She raised her eyebrows at him.

'Don't you worry about that; I don't think that all of Scotland is going to be completely agreeing to the ways of King Edward. But for me, I need to feel my blade cleanly slice the balls off an English bastard before the Almighty can call me a hero.'

'A hero?'

'Yup, well a hero just to myself, I would have fulfilled all what I would have spontaneously wanted.'

'I believe God would call you a hero by simply seeking justice,' Anice said, arching an eyebrow, though a smirk played on her lips. It did likewise on Stephen. His sombre face split into a humourless, sardonic grin. 'I know I would.'

'Of course I know you would Anice McDuffie.' He clapped the portly woman genially on the back and she gave a snort. However Stephen's face sank quickly back into its previous serious state.

'Just so's you know, I imagine I will leave at first light, Anice.'

First light. A pink, misty sunrise creeping over the horizon, beckoning Stephen to pursue his mission. That was what he imagined. A last reminder of the special beauty of his Ireland before he descended across the fathomless, iron sea to the ancient, subjugated country that was Scotland.


	5. The Proposition

_Author's Note: Hurrah! Another quick update. The holidays are allowing one time to be on the roll. Anyway, as ever, thanks to my faithful reviewer LazyChestnut. _

_Please enjoy and please review!_

**Chapter Five**

'_I have a secret Stephen. I know where Logan is ... Almighty can give you answers. Can he? yes ... yes he can. I cannot. Look. No. Don't look there. Smile for me. Will you kiss me? And wrap me in your strong arms? no, not there – don-t -don't do that! Don't touch it! Ow! NO!!' Through the incoherent jumble of murmured words, a long wailing scream coursed through the stillness of the night, as blood began to seep across the white skin of a woman's back, spanning over the contours of her bone like webs … a profound cut began to appear, cracking itself along the spine, almost splitting the back in two. _

_It hunched over in its agony and the person fell to their knees. A quivering face appeared from the hilt of the shoulder; it was stained with blood, framed by the clumpish strands of bedraggled auburn hair, their mouth flapping uselessly open in a silent scream - STEPHEN! _

Stephen bolted up from his bed, caked in cold sweat. He was panting hard as if he had run a mile. Strands of his dark hair hung limply in front of his face and he closed his eyes, trying in vain to block out the horrific image from his nightmare. He heaved a shuddering sigh.

'No more nightmares God,' he murmured shakily, 'not of Meghan'. A thin strip of greenish light was seen cracking through the door. It was first light. It was dawn. It was time to go. His stomach gave a somersault of apprehension but nonetheless, he reached down and roughly pulled on his boots and readied himself to go; it was a long trip to the harbour.

The journey was long and silent. He left the village as quickly as he could, feeling like a dead man, not waiting to see if Anice would appear. Atop his bay mare, he cantered wildly over feral sable-coloured plains and untamed hills, not taking any time to savour the stunning sunrise which cast its hazy pink rays upon the earth, spreading across to every crack and fissure on Ireland's fair ground.

He had not stopped to find any reminder of Meghan or of Logon in the hut before he left. The only precious things that now remained were memories of stolen kisses and the feel of her hand caressing softly through his dark hair. And of Logan – woe betide him if he ever forgot his son's smiling face. He blinked back the tears.

By the time he reached the harbour, the sun had fully risen. He felt like a ghost as he moved slowly through the crowds of people that were waiting to sail over. Why, he had no idea, or were they, like him, willing to sail over and join the Scots to fight the English? He cared not whose side he joined, as long as he could feel his blade butcher the English man's flesh. The majority of the crowd were mirror images of himself: grave faced men, laden with weapons and bearing heavy leather tunics – very much like his own.

Very few of them were talking. Their murmurings melded harmoniously with the gentle lapping of the waves of the sea against the moss smothered rocks. He inhaled the powerful salty sea air and felt a strange surge of strength, as if God had kindly pieced a part of his shattered heart in place. Facing the unknown was a fulfilment he wanted to progress.

'All aboard men!'

A loud cry vaulted the air and a plank of wood was placed roughly onto the wooden pier. It led onto a plausibly sized boat which swayed gently in motion with the light, choppy waves. On board it was being steadily prepared by sailors. As if in a dream, Stephen boarded. He did not look back as the rolling cliffs of Ireland steadily faded from view or realise he could no longer hear the screeches of seagulls. Thus, the boat began its steadfast journey upon the iron sea, battling through the rough, angry waves to Scotland.

- - - - - - - - - - -

The chamber was lit with a dim, orangey glow. It was emitted from the ornate, steel burning brackets which surrounded the room, causing a string of sinuous shadows to dance across the rough contours of the stone walls. Plonked unceremoniously in the centre of the room, stretched a long, oaken table. It was laden with a succulent leg of salted pork which was encircled by a garland of golden roast potatoes and a series of richly coloured vegetables upon silver platters. The scene was mouth-watering but to Meghan she felt nauseated at the sight of it. She sat at one far end of the table, bathed into the shadows save for a sliver of orangey light across her face. She maintained a stony air as she stared unseeingly around her, biting her lower lip.

Situated halfway up the table was little Alden, who was immersed in arranging the food on his plate and sought simple joy in spearing his runner beans and pretending they were horses. Directly opposite to Meghan, sat Aldrich. The old man leant languidly back in his chair, carelessly holding a glass of blood red wine, but his pale eyes which at intervals, darted nervously at Meghan's deadpan demeanor, betrayed his composure from appearing at ease. All was a but a deafening silence hanging thickly in the air, only disturbed loudly by the neighing noises from Alden as he played.

'How do you find the pork?' Aldrich said courteously to Meghan, in an attempt to conjure conversation.

Meghan stared at her untouched pork.

'Forgive me, but it is quite hot for my liking at the moment,' she replied coolly, choosing to take a sip of wine through pursed lips.

'Very well,' Aldrich said, laughing faintly, 'You know of my taste my dear; serve everything to me piping hot.'

Meghan forced a laugh and began to cut stiffly at a roast potato.

'I am confused why there is such a feast when it is only halfway through the week,' she said, 'Sunday is usually the day I would expect it. Normally your duties force you to retire to your study or you are within the company of your men, talking of plans and subterfuges.'

Aldrich raised his gaze to look at her, and Meghan sharply met it, looking politely puzzled. The old man's lined face crinkled into a small, uncomfortable grin.

'So you have noticed,' he said, a delicate laugh audible in his tone, 'that is good … that is very good' he stroked his unshaven chin and gave a pretend cough. His eyes flitted furtively to a guard which stood by the door and they both exchanged the smallest of nods. Something strange was going on.

'Are you impressed by it all?' he asked her rather bluntly.

Meghan raised her eyebrows. 'Well … yes, it's certainly most … _elaborated._ It beats bread and chicken.'

'Indeed,' said Aldrich smoothly, stroking his chin. He looked as if he was thinking something quickly through.

'My dear Meghan, I have a … a proposal for you,' he said hesitantly, fixing his eyes suddenly onto her across the table. Meghan slowly looked up at him, a course of fear and anticipation beginning to pound at her heart.

'And what might that be?' she said.

There was a protracted silence, which was only disturbed by the animated voice of Alden as he pretended his potato was a soldier charging into a battle of carrots.

'I – er,' Aldrich began; feeling slightly thrown off by the sudden scrutinizing stare Meghan was giving him. He cleared his throat and regained his composure. 'I was wondering my dear Meghan if you would have the pleasure of becoming my wife. I can offer you a good, sheltered life with – with nice food,' he waved a hand at the pork, 'and money. And more importantly, because we have bore a child,' a small laugh escaped him, 'it only sees fit that the church cements our partnership as man and wife, for having a child and not being courted is blasphemy to the God Almighty. I can think of no other joyous offer.'

He finished with a deep sip of his wine, and smiled almost foolishly over at Meghan, waiting for her reply.

However, Meghan's head was ringing, as if Aldrich had stridden from his chair and bellowed the words at her. One hand was paused before her mouth which was holding a forkful of beans and slowly, she lowered it to the table. She sat in her chair, numb with shock, with her mind trying in vain to decipher the jumble of words he had said to her. _Wife … it only sees fit that the church cements our partnership … we bared a child … not being courted is blasphemy to God … Wife …_

Before she could stop it, the smiling face of Stephen slowly swam to view in her mind's eye. He was dressed in his nuptial raiment, his raven hair glinting chestnut brown by the glorious sunlight shining from the hills. Slowly, his hands reached out and softly kissed her face. _Keep smiling and the sun will always shine on me. I love you ..._ their wedding. The memory now seemed ghostly and forbidden to dwell upon, lest she crumble and feel the slither of tremulous tears down her cheeks. There was a loud cough, and Meghan plunged out of her reverie, Stephen's face now materialising into Aldrich's wizened one, the brutal reality closing in around her. He eyed her closely from across the table, a half-smile crooking his lips.

'You are stunned,' he said to her.

Numbly, Meghan gave a nod.

'Yes,' Meghan replied weakly, forcing a laugh, 'you caught me off my guard.'

'Well what say you?'

'I –' Meghan faltered as she felt a wave of sickness sweep through her as she felt Aldrich watch her intently. What a disgusting question to ask of her consent. Did he take her for a fool? Obviously, her answer mattered not! The marriage was most definitely arranged. She was and had been, kept under Aldrich's authority and control for four, long excruciating years. Only now it had reached its sharpest and most formidable peak. She could not acknowledge it.

'Ooof! Goodness me, my head is spinning from this immense proposal you have stated,' she heaved a long, embroidered sigh, placing a hand upon her chest, pretending to feel faint, 'indeed my head feels light and giddy with wonder,' she laughed weakly, 'forgive me, but a girl can only take so much in, in one night. Will you let me sleep, so in the morning I can give one a bolder answer?'

_- - - - - -_

_And so ... CUT. You'll just have to wait for chapter six to find out what Aldrich's reaction is going to be._


	6. Feigned Tears

_Author's Note:_**: **_ooo it's getting exciting (he he), I spent a night doing 'A Braveheart Therapy Session', much to my own amusement – Thank you LazyChestnut for pointing out my spelling mistake and for the review. Hope you all enjoy this next installment. Reviews greatly appreciated! _

_Be constructive!_

**Chapter Six**

Aldrich surveyed Meghan pointedly from across the table, as a prolonged silence ensued heavily from her query. The old man sensed the uncertainty beneath her feigned daintiness; it was evident she was extremely taken aback. _I will not have her swoon, _he mused darkly,_ let's not press any concerns_. Meghan held his gaze from across the table, smiling blandly and nervously waiting for his answer.

'Indeed,' Aldrich said slickly, idly curling a tress of grey hair, 'I understand that this question … for you - you will need to come to terms with,' he chuckled lightly, 'marriage is – is a duty when one has ones child-.'

'- May I be excused?' asked Meghan politely as she could, though she cleanly cut across him. Aldrich blinked from being interrupted and he felt his guard stir restlessly beside the door.

'You do not want … desert? No?'

'No thank you,' smiled Meghan, 'but the meal has been … er … delightful. Goodnight.'

She gently rose from her seat, forcing herself to give Alden's head an affectionate pat, in order to cement the convincing show of her newly gracious manner. She continued to walk with a painful, swift elegance past Aldrich, and out of the room. When finally she had shut the door smartly behind her, she broke into a frenzied half-run down the corridor.

Frantically, she ushered herself into her quarters, and sank back into the wooden door, breathing deeply.

'Right, let me mull over what has been said,' she told herself sternly, not caring if she sounded slightly mad. She swept from the door and strode over to the window and pressed her face firmly onto the ice, cold glass. She savoured the prickling, numbing feeling which had arisen in her skin.

'If only to numb my wits,' she breathed.

A cloud of vapour appeared on the window. She withdrew her face slowly and with a finger traced her name into the condensation. She stared at it dumbly for a few seconds until a harsh laugh escaped her.

'Marriage …' she emphasised the word with drawling contempt, , '… to _him_'. Her voice rang dully off the walls. 'Bastard! What news! … and yet I can't even dwell upon it!'

She gave yet another laugh, very much unlike her own and she collapsed heavily onto her wooden bed.

'Let me _acknowledge its weightiness_,' she spoke quietly, a humourless smirk tilting her mouth.

She stared fixedly at the many cobwebs spanning the oaken beams, 'God? You up there? Why God, is it that you have allowed this formidable event to occur and yet I am not huddled in a corner, sobbing my heart out and – and considering a possible suicide?' She sprang up from the bed with alarming quickness and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, a finger pointing sharply into the corners of her eyes. 'Look God! No tears! Dry as a bone. What are you doing to me? _Why_ am I speaking to you aloud and to myself like a madwoman?

'You read my heart as easily as a book, you know of my wishes and my desires and you let _this_ happen? You have let this happen …' she abruptly looked down and her unblinking gaze caught sight of the hills of Ireland outside her window. A blessed view it was. Indeed, she felt unhappy, adrift with a senseless languor, but yet the proposition was too dreadful for her too accept; far too awful. Her first thought had been an endless scream of "whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?" inside her head, but from then on, her thoughts had been an indecipherable whir of solutions on how to avoid the marriage. Thus, it had rendered her state to be light-headed with shock.

Vaguely, she drifted to her bed and sank into the sheets, feeling her eyelids droop with weariness.

Sleep consumed her.

Yet unbeknownst to Meghan, a pair of eyes had been watching her every move. The door to her room slowly shut itself and the dark outline of a figure lifted its hand off the brass door knob and started off at a careful pace down the stone flagged floored corridors, disappearing around a corner with a flick of their cloak.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

It was as if she had concocted the plan in her sleep. It had been a restless night; ideas and notions scampering in and out of her head like mice but now Meghan vaguely knew of what she had to do. The notion frightened her but if she had enough patience and daring, she might succeed.

She arose from the bed, and as she swept to the door, she caught sight of a tuft of auburn hair, poking from the cot across the room. Alden was sleeping. Should she wake him? _Nay, let a nurse tend to that – for once. _

She then headed towards the dressing rooms; she bathed and got changed into a maid's outfit. She then proceeded toward the stables.

The raw September morning pierced her skin as she stepped outside. The sky was a sheet of steel, carpeted by a looming mass of grey cloud. The sunlight filtered weakly through it, casting its pearly rays onto Meghan's hair.

She could feel the English soldier's head's turn as she hurried across the courtyard. Lumps of mud stuck out everywhere and she lifted her skirt to not dirty it. Too late. Too immersed in his preoccupation, she did not notice the plank of wood, plonked unceremoniously before her and with a frightened yelp; she tripped, falling headlong into the filthy ground.

Cheeks aflame and her form shaking with mortification, Meghan staggered from the ground to the jeering catcalls from nearby men. Avoiding to look around her, she brushed herself best she could, and promptly turned on her heel and finally entered the stables.

She released a sigh of exhaustion; the place was blissfully quiet, airy and light, and smelt strongly of hay and horse excretion. Yet all rough sounds of men's voices were dulled by the thick oaken walls.

'Kerri,' she mumbled, 'Kerri, it's me.'

She wandered to the end of the stable and came face to face with a bay mare.

'Hello beautiful,' Meghan cooed, stroking the gelding's nuzzle. Of all the discontent Aldrich had grated onto her life, he had at least allowed her to have her own steed. The mare's original rider had been killed in battle and so, Aldrich had given it to Meghan as a present when she conceived their son. Many of his men had scowled at this gesture, but Meghan had got used to the fact she was in their eyes, "their Lord's whore." Undoubtedly, the horse was the only creature which did not leer or flinch at the sight of her, giving her a morsel of peace she had been stripped of for four years.

'We're going to go riding; this might just be my only chance of escape so we must make haste.'

It seemed the horse recognised the desperation in Meghan's voice and immediately it trotted obediently out of its stable as she held onto its reigns.

'Let's just get you your saddle …' she spoke to the horse if it was a child, her voice transcending into a rare gentle and affectionate tone.

Carefully, Meghan adjusted the saddle upon Kerri's back, measuring the length of the stirrups. She hummed tunelessly to herself when suddenly she heard a creak. The hasty flapping of bird's wings from the roof of the stables indicated a disturbance was stirring behind the door.

'Hello?' she enquired, one hand poised upon the saddle.

The wooden door swung violently from the force of a powerful kick and Meghan gave a sharp squeal, backing away from the saddle,

'I've been told you were down here,' said a voice. It was Latham. He grinned strode casually into the hut, grinning at her startled state.

'Latham!' exclaimed Meghan crossly, placing her from her chest onto her hip, 'What the fuck was that for?'

'Language miss,' he said sternly, though his body quaked with suppressed mirth, 'tis not befitting that such a word be tongued by a woman,' he smiled blandly, flicking away a lock of his blond hair behind his ears, 'I was told you were down here. Yet it looks like you brought the whole of the courtyard in with you.' His eyes listlessly examined the smatters of dirt streaked upon Meghan's maid outfit.

'I tripped,' muttered Meghan, continuing in tightening the reigns, 'and I was _laughed _at, if you must know,' she heard Latham utter a sharp chuckle, 'who told you I was here?'

'The men of course,' said Latham, tilting an eyebrow, 'your presence to the stables had not gone unnoticed.'

'Clearly,' murmured Meghan darkly. She desperately wanted him to leave.

Latham strode over to her, his portly belly poking visibly from under his tunic.

'And where do you think you're going hmm?' His brown eyes observed the readied horse.

'Well – I am going to go riding.'

'Is that so?"

'Yes …' Meghan said furtively, her cheeks burning. She knew what he was going to say; he would have to come with her.

'Lord Aldrich is still awaiting your answer, from last night.'

Meghan swallowed hard, feeling heat beginning to prick at her eyes. _So the news of the proposition had spread around the garrison like wildfire. Most probably of divulged the information from the influence of a few ales. _

'You know do you?' she said.

'Everyone does,' Latham said sleekly, 'yet what say you? Aldrich awaits you.'

'You can tell your Lord that I desire half the day off, so that I can have some fresh air,' Meghan snivelled, daring to be as cheeky as she could, 'can he not give a woman some peace?'

Latham coursed a hand distractedly through his blond hair. 'I daresay,' he said, 'I quite agree,' he paused, 'will you let me accompany you?'

Meghan looked at him in slight surprise and Latham gave a shy yet almost hopeful smile, which momentarily softened the austere lines engraved into his face. Here the Englishman stood, an English soldier, a breed she had only ever seen rip her life apart.

She neither liked nor disliked Latham, the man was decent to her enough yet she always felt like a cringing dog when they were in public, like she did with all the English soldiers. So he wanted to accompany her? _How could she avoid this? _She couldn't.

'Why not,' she said, smiling sweetly. Her mind began to whir wildly with panic. Latham wandered over to a stable on his right and brought out a black stallion. then as he secured a saddle upon its back; they lead their steeds out of the stable and trotted slowly out of the garrison.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

'Where is it you intend to go?' asked Latham as they proceeded through a huge mountain pass which was smattered with tumbling rocks. The morning sunlight pierced through the clouds, warming their necks.

Meghan bowed her head and avoided his glance. He sensed her unease. _What the hell is up with you woman?_

'Where?' he repeated sternly, staring at Meghan's back.

She forced a wet sniff and lifted her head. Latham blinked in surprise at the tears in Meghan's eyes.

'I – I you must understand this,' she said quietly, expanding her eyes to appear forlorn, 'today is the day my son was killed and so I must pay tribute to his memory. I have not had the chance over the years – the night my life was stolen.'

Her lower lip trembled and pretended her body to be consumed by a wave of sadness, burying her face in her hands and sobbing loudly. Latham observed her awkwardly, at a loss at what to do.

'I – I,' he said, fiddling with his reign distractedly, 'well of course –' He had not been ready for this notion from her. Through Meghan's feigned grief, she saw to her gladness that he was convinced.

'It is only a small, stand-alone grave,' she said thickly, wiping away the tears she had forced down her cheeks, 'it's – it's just up here … ' she pointed weakly into the distance, staring fixedly at Latham. He looked away; _I will say yes, just wipe your eyes woman. _He gave a nod, ignoring Meghan's appreciative watery smile.

She slowly dismounted, and walked on ahead of her. Her heart was shaking with nerves, pounding at her head like war drums.

Any minute now … any minute now … it had to be now … she could here the tell-tale drumming of his horse's hooves behind her as he followed … she heard him dismount and the _CHINK CHINK CHINK _of his chain mail across the ground. She paused. Slowly, ever so slowly she retrieved a hammer from the sleeve of her dress. It felt cold and cruel against the bare flesh of her arm. He was now standing right behind her, most probably looking curiously around, a frown curving his brow. Yet could he hear her breathing coming in short ragged rasps? Could he sense the nervous flush begin to crawl up her neck? Could he see her chest begin to heave rapidly with fervent anticipation?

_Do it now … _a voice screamed, _what are you waiting for? _

She clenched one tiny fist over the cold handle and she turned and firmly battered hard him the face. The action was so unexpected that Latham could not prevent the blow.

Meghan watched in horror as the man's eyes rolled into his head and sink to his knees. Defeated. He fell heavily to the floor, blood seeping from his head and trickling onto the ground.

_Oh God … what have I done?_

Meghan observed him numbly for a moment, before her legs began to tremble.

The hammer fell limply from her grasp. This was her chance. Without another word and in a daze of adrenaline she staggered over to Kerri.

She clumsily mounted the horse and galloped ahead of her. She did not look back. Her mind only coursed with one instruction – to reach her village. She was not far now. She knew the landmarks. She would be home soon.


	7. Back Home

_Author's Note_**: **_and so I present to you chapter seven. - I will confess this one is probably my favourite so far. Forgive me if it is shorter than the other's but I had to leave it on this cliff-hanger. A big thanks once again to LazyChestnut and her reviews – yes I did repost the last chapter, it just needed some fine editing. _

_Please review and be constructive!_

**Chapter Seven**

"_I wish I was on yonder hill  
'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,  
And every tear would turn a mill,  
Iss guh day thoo avorneen slawn"_

A small boat steadily crawled itself across the sea, was alit with the rowdy voices of sailors and a few of its passengers. They grouped themselves upon the deck, swinging on poles and on each other, meandering about holding onto bottles of liqueur. Stephen sat soberly upon a bench, vaguely watching them. He smiled slightly as one of the sailors was tripped up by his friend and fell comically to the floor, to much laughter from the others. _Sods aren't they God … _he mused humorously, _if I had not been sleeping on swaying wooden beams and in rooms that stench of vomit, I would have joined them gladly, alas the veil sleep consumes me. It has been a lonely voyage._

There was a wet sniff beside him. Stephen looked to his left and saw a small boy, no younger than eight watching the drunken gathering in apprehension. 'What's the matter my little fellow?' asked Stephen. The young boy jumped at being spoken too and stared wide-eyed at Stephen who smiled gently.

'No need to be afraid lad,' he said, 'what's your name?'

'T- Thomas,' he mumbled shyly, casting the drunken group another wary glance. 'A fine name is that,' smiled Stephen, patting the boy on the shoulder, 'now what's bothering you? I don't see you smiling.'

'What's Da doing?' he asked, pointing timidly at the men, clearly his father was one of them; 'he's all – loud and rolling about like a madman.'

Stephen chuckled. 'They are only having a good time is all,' he said, 'don't let it worry you.' Thomas looked up at Stephen and gave a weak smile.

'I won't, Da says that when we get to Scotland we're going to have a new start and chop Englandmen and that he's going to get himself a new Ma.'

'Did he now?' said Stephen, raising his eyebrows in interest.

'Yup,' said Thomas sprightly, 'I want a new Ma, I miss the old one. She was killed by Englandmen but Da say's she with the angels now. Do you have a Ma?'

Thomas' confidence had grown and was now happily talking about all of his life, just like any child would. For all his childlike innocence with the question he asked Stephen, he could not help suppress a sad chuckle. 'My Ma has gone too,' Stephen replied, 'a fine, beautiful woman she was, just like all of the Irish ladies. I bet your Ma was just as fair.'

'She was,' nodded Thomas ardently, almost hopping about on the spot, smiling widely, 'and is your Ma with the angels too? Up, up, up in the sky?'

'Yes my laddie,' Stephen replied, looking up into the pearly white clouds ahead, 'she is.'

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Meghan tore up a familiar hillside pass she had not seen in years. Her stomach was in knots and he throat constricting with apprehension. _Nearly there … nearly there … after an hour of riding, hell this must have been worth it! … _she put her horse through all it's paces, galloping fiercely across grassy plains and through snaking streams, _ride you beast … ride … _

A familiar hill poked out in the distance. Her heart leapt. Hewn into that hill was the small village where she had once lived. With her Stephen and their son. Their own family. She neither knew nor cared what she might find … just any familiar face from the days when she was a happy, complete woman. Only that would fulfill her aching needs and make the throbbing gallop worthwhile.

'Almost there girl … almost'

She mumbled incoherently under her breath as she rode onwards. Was that a small hut she saw protruding from behind a rock? Oh why must her heart twang so viciously with nerves against her chest? What with? Fear? Anticipation? Excitement? Joy? All of the emotions were compressed tightly together, knotted so fiercely that it seemed to drive her insane. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind and unmistakably, she saw the sight of a small village materialize ahead of her. She was back.

Meghan slowed the pace of Kerri and began to canter slowly forwards. The passage into the village was still the same, the small muddy road still intact … and what was that she saw stirring outside of a hut? A person! The place had not been neglected. A relieved smile knitted itself upon her face and Meghan lessened Kerri's speed into a gradual, measured trot.

The passage opened its arms for her as Meghan rode through. Everywhere was undamaged. The villagers had obviously rebuilt and moved on after the attack. Oh bless them Lord, bless them! Meghan knew the only one place where she was headed. She dismounted, and ran at breakneck speed towards her own hut. It was only fifty meters away …

'Hello! Hello?' she cried, as she ran on ahead, 'HELLO!' she cared not she sounded mad. She needed to be noticed. 'HELLO! CONNOR? Anyone? … Stephen! Stephen!'

'What the hell do you think you're doing missy, making an incessant racket around here? Get back to your hut and work!'

A portly, grey- eyed woman, stormed out of her hut, carrying a basket of furs. When she entered outside to see the source of disturbance, and saw Meghan wandering aimlessly around, the basket fell limply from her grasp in utter shock. Anice's jaw dropped, her eyes expanded and the woman sank weakly to her knees.

'Good heavens!' she gasped, tears beginning to roll down her plump cheeks, 'g – good heavens!'

Meghan spotted Anice and dashed over, her body trembling. 'Anice,' she said weakly, 'Anice McDuffie.' Anice nodded dumbly, her fingers tracing down her face in astonishment. She could not believe this … not in all her days … her voice; the lass' voice was as clear and as real as it sounded four years ago. Meghan knelt beside the sobbing woman, and draped a comforting arm over her body.

'Aye it's me,' she said calmly, 'I'm back.'

'Oh my dear,' Anice said tremulously, 'you don't know of the events being done since you've been gone. We all thought you were dead. We were so convinced.'

Meghan looked at the woman's tearstained face, it was all true. 'Then you must tell me then,' she said, 'for even my story is eventful to tell from over these years. It has not been easy my friend, without him – but he rests now in the arms of the Almighty.'

Fresh tears began to seep from under Meghan's eyelids and she could not suppress the moan of agony that escaped her. 'I have not had the time to mourn for him,' Meghan sobbed, 'my years have been filled only with a suffocating darkness with more unhappy tidings. I have been robbed from the ability to move on! My son, my Stephen …'

Anice swallowed hard and another ocean of tears leaked down the corners of her wrinkled eyes as Meghan said this. The woman shook her head. And what was this? A – a – a _smile? _Unmistakably, a ghost of a smile flickered briefly on Anice's face. But what pained the woman more was that the uniting of the dear couple had been too late. Oh how she had wished to have been there if Stephen had seen Meghan running into the village, yelling his name.

'Meghan,' Anice choked, wiping away a tear, 'there's something you should know.'

'And what is that?'

The woman smiled sadly. 'Stephen isn't dead, he's alive.'


	8. Reality Bites Back

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_Ah here we have chapter eight. Goodness I am such a cruel author aren't I? (lol) Well where would the excitement be in the story? A big thanks to LazyChestnut and her great reviews, and so as a thankyou for her taking the time to read my fanfiction, this chapter is dedicated to her )_

_Hope you enjoy the chapter everyone. Please review )_

**Chapter Eight**

**"Reality bites back"**

'W - What?'

The word dropped limply from Meghan's mouth.

She stared hard at Anice, unable to comprehend what she had just heard. Was this some sort of cruel joke? She was not a fool. She would not easily believe anything anymore, Four years spent with Aldrich had turned her positively cynical. Yet … it couldn't be a joke; Anice was not the type of person to jest in matters in such as this. But … what, what, _what _… words simply failed her! Her heart began to drum wildly with anticipation.

'He lives,' said Anice, the corners of her mouth pulling into a faint, sad smile, 'he never died during the attack.' She gave a watery chuckle and pulled Meghan closer to her, as she sensed the lass' emotions build up inside. Meghan sank into Anice, clutching her tightly, and she gave a loud, overwhelmed sob into the woman's motherly shoulders. Her body began to quake with a besieged flurry of tears.

Writhing storms of emotions shot through her. Anger. A fresh, bubbling anger grew as the news gradually sank in, _Aldrich, the lying, conniving, insolent son of a - He knew! HE KNEW! And he never told her!_ How could the man sit at the table and look her in the eye? He disgusted her. The man deserved a racking in hell.Yet, cracking through Meghan's fury, a more hushed and stronger emotion sprouted, a feeling of a silent, radiant joy she thought she would never feel. It was if the angels had blasted their heavenly trumpets and were serenading her soul. All of her wildest hopes had come true. He lived.

'I can't think that at all,' Meghan said, her voice muffled from being compressed into Anice's shoulder. She withdrew, 'if I only I had heard these blessed words four years ago. Are you sure what you say is true?'

Anice nodded, 'I would not lie. Let's … get you into the hut and I shall explain everything.' With a finger, she wiped away another tear from Meghan's face, who numbly nodded her assent. Both women then stood up slowly, and proceeded into Anice's hut.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

'Shoo!'

A terrier which had been curled up on a chair started in surprise. To avoid the impatient flapping of Anice's hands, it grudgingly settled itself in a vacant corner, suspiciously eyeing the newcomer entering the hut. 'Here …' said Anice, offering the chair. Meghan sat down dazedly, casting the empty hut a glance.

'Where is Connor?' she said, looking up at Anice but she thought she already knew the answer. Anice smiled thinly.

'He is dead,' she replied bluntly, 'perished three winters ago from a fever due to an infected wound.' The silence of the hut pressed in on Meghan's ears. It was deafening. How could she cope? Where was the laughter and voices of her daughters? Surely not …

'Brianna and little Colleen are with their father in heaven,' said Anice shortly, who was watching Meghan closely. Meghan gasped and her eyes widened.

'Oh Anice, I am so sorry – your whole fa –'

'– it's not a problem,' Anice's grey eyes flashed, 'Ciara, my niece was married five days ago and is said to be with child. I have the company of Brae over there,' she waved a hand at the terrier which pricked up its ears from the call of its name, 'but we must talk of you.'

Meghan swallowed and stared at her lap, wringing her hands. 'In your own time,' said Anice kindly.

Meghan heaved a breath and slowly, pushed away the stabbing doubt which was forcing her to not narrate back to the time of the attack.

'From what I can remember the last time I ever saw Stephen, was when he was surrounded by the soldiers,' she began steadily 'But whether by delusion of fear and of nightmares over the years, I believed him to be dead. I remember being hit – then carried. The rest is blackness. I was taken to the garrison that controls the handful of villages around this area, as a "prize "to the noble: Lord Aldrich' …

And so Meghan plunged into the telling of the hidden, dark years she had ploughed through. It was tough to relive it all, but Anice needed to know and Meghan wanted to be rid of the buried hurt inside. She was mightily thankful that Anice did not shower her with gasps or smother her back with sympathetic pats, as she retold the story.

Merely, Anice's expressive grey eyes widened in the right places, especially when Meghan told how she was forced to conceive a son, and how she could not grow to love the child, just like she could not love herself – she felt dirtied and ashamed. She spoke of how she was confined into the garrison, being tailed closely like a dog whether she chose to venture outside it. And when she was not in the hills, stalked closely by Latham she would be flung under the watchful eye of Aldrich in the castle, especially at mealtimes.

'How did you escape?'

Meghan gulped and a wave of guilt swept through her.

'I allowed Latham to follow me on the way here,' Meghan said quietly, squinting at a chair leg, 'riding out of the garrison alone would be suspicious. I pretended to be upset. I dismounted. He followed. I battered him with a hammer, whether he is dead or not I wouldn't know. But then that was my chance to escape, so I did.'

There was a pause where Anice simply looked at Meghan. She slowly reached forwards and embraced her, allowing the young woman to sink into her arms and release her emotions. She felt the vibration of suppressed sobs against her neck.

'Let the tears come my dear,' she whispered, slowly stroking her auburn hair with her weathered hands, 'I will tell you of Stephen. He survived the attack with the soldiers and he saw you being taken away. Connor said he had never seen him run so fast up the hill but it was too late to reach you. He returned back to the village and he – he buried your son.'

Meghan gave a light moan and withdrew from Anice, listening raptly to every detail.

The funeral was short but sweet. I will not lie; Stephen found it hard to cope. He became a recluse, missing you dearly every day. It became worse when Connor died. Only five days ago I forced him to come to the first happy event in years, my niece's wedding. He came, he smiled and he danced but he was not complete.'

'Where is he now?' Meghan asked, her voice shaking.

Anice bowed sadly.

'He is sailing over to Scotland as we speak to fight the English. I know not what he will find there, except savouring the devil's pleasure of feeling his blade butcher English flesh.'

'When did he leave?'

'Four days ago.'

'Only four days!' Meghan exclaimed, standing up suddenly from her chair, causing Anice to jolt with surprise. The Lord was laughing at her. By a mere couple of days they would have been united. _Four hell damned bloody days! _The curses wildly span around Meghan's head. It had been so close.

Anice said nothing but calmly indicated for Meghan to sit.

'I'm going to find him,' said Meghan defiantly, 'he has only left the harbour for only a few days so if we took a boat now, we would be able to catch up with him!' She realised her body was trembling with anticipation but also noted how childish she sounded. _Dammnit Meghan you can't just hop onto a boat … _her eyes flew up and saw a faint smirk twisted upon Anice's face but the woman's eyes were kind. She understood Meghan's zeal.

'Before you do anything,' alleged Anice gravely, 'there is something you ought to see.'

- - - - - - - -

'Such a neat grave,' stated Anice quietly. A whistling wind blew.

Both women stood thickly cloaked on top of a dewy hill, at the foot of a small grave. It was tidily garlanded by diminutive stones, each carefully chosen to be indentical in their size. Flowers, some withered, had been strewn respectfully across it from passers by. Out of the dishevelled grass, a stone cross protruded up at the end. A weathered Celtic pattern had been engraved into it, and beneath the weathered swirls Meghan could just about dissect a small "L" scratched roughly into its gnarled surface. Stephen's work, she mused.

Meghan slipped her hand out of Anice's and knelt beside the grave, thoughtfully caressing the stone cross' cold, rough surface. Below the hard, cold ground lay her son. Logan. Wrapped hopefully in the warmth of his burial bonds. There would be no mother to be able tuck him in at night, to ensure him a comfortable sleep. _Oh Stephen … why did you have to do this alone … your own son …? _Tears silently slid down Meghan's face. _Sleep tight Logan, someday we shall be united. Keep on dreaming my little soldier … keep on dreaming … _

Meghan rose, and feeling like a dead woman herself, walked numbly over to Anice who scooped Meghan's hands in hers, rubbing them roughly to keep them warm. A motherly gesture Meghan thought, the woman had been used to doing the habit with her own daughters before their deaths.

However in the peace of this moment, just as Meghan was about to smile appreciatively, the uneven thumping of footsteps was heard. Someone was approaching up the hill. Anice did not seem too perturbed … maybe it was just a villager. Meghan tried to relax when suddenly her ears snatched onto a familiar stern voice.

'Hello Meghan, I thought I might find you here.'

Meghan felt the blood drain from her face. She glanced nervously at Anice and saw that the woman was looking confusedly past her shoulder. Slowly, Meghan wheeled round, bracing herself for the blow to fall. Breathing and inevitably in one piece, Latham stood before her. As if screaming its appearance, Meghan saw the angry welt of a red, purplish bruise protruding from his skin, it was clotted with blood. His brown eyes remained unreadable as he gazed at Meghan; no fathom of emotion was traced into his character,

'What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?'

'You're an Englishman,' Anice piped up sharply, her forehead crumpling in confusion, 'what do you want with Meghan?' she wrapped an arm, almost protectively around Meghan's waist.

Meghan felt her cheeks begin to burn and determinedly avoided looking at Latham. She was ready for the moment when he would begin to yell at her.

'Yes madam I am an Englishmen,' said Latham briskly, scraping back his hair from his eyes, 'and I have known Meghan here for quite a while.'

'You matter not to her – '

'– what are you doing here, Latham?' Meghan finally mumbled, cutting across Anice.

'I will speak plain, considering you battered me earlier I knew the reason it would be was to return here. Your village.'

'Clever man,' said Anice snidely, crossing her arms. Latham ignored her.

'You will have to return to the garrison, Meghan. I am here to escort you. I will not say that it was you who struck me.'

Meghan's jaw dropped and she mouthed wordlessly at Latham._ No … no .. _

'Over my daughter's dead bodies are you removing her from her home!' spat Anice.

'And then have every village burned down because his Lordship has noticed she has disappeared? You think him blind of your intentions … _runaway bride? _It gives the impression that I have allowed such a scandal – and we can't have that' shouted Latham fiercely, his large chest puffing out in his outburst, 'she has been offered the consummation of marriage! She must return. She bore the Lord Aldrich's child so she must wed. He is a noble held in great esteem of King Edward and he will not be denied. '

'Is what you speak of true?' said Meghan quietly, 'that villages will be burned?'

'Yes,' replied Latham. Meghan paled and she felt her insides throb with fear and anger. After finding out the joyous news that Stephen was alive, she was now being forced back into the gates of her hell once more. But was it really worth the price of lots innocent lives? Jesus! Why did her being have to be such a mighty significance? _Why?!_ It bitterly, severely, viciously frustrated her but she knew Latham did not mince his words, she knew of what the English were capable of – the meaningless attack on her village four years ago. The decision was hellish and spitefully cruel, just when a glimmer of hope had started to appear. _Her Stephen was alive for Godsake!_

She bit her lip and stared long and hard at her son's grave. She could not simply see nor live with the blame if another stretch of land was to be laden with other children's corpses.

'Right,' said Meghan, her voice trembling, 'I will go. But I am not doing this to be brave; it is because I will not have a meaningless slaughter on my behalf because I refused to go back to a place of so much fucking blackness.'

She heard Anice give a sharp intake of breath behind her. 'Meghan …no … you can just say no and then you can go after him –'

'- I don't – don't say that!' she snapped, not able to look at the tears that had sprung in Anice's eyes, it stabbed at her soul like an icy knife, 'there's no other way.'

'Quite right,' said Latham, 'I certainly don't want to see another massacre.'

'You have no pity do you?' said Anice fiercely, her grey eyes slits of fury, 'you were one of those soldiers that went into our homes and killed our son's and daughters. Well I hope your soul perishes to hell when you di- '

'Anice!' Meghan interrupted, slightly startled by her friend's angry emotional outburst. The woman silenced but she glared hatefully up at Latham whose austere face momentarily flickered.

'I am sorry for your loss,' said Latham, he then turned to Meghan, 'come. We must go.'


	9. The Breaking of Banks

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_Ah so finally here is chapter nine, I can't imagine spending so long on a chapter before, but I'm generally proud of this one, a lot of interesting stuff occurs, I promise you (Y). I have not updated as quicker as I thought because I'm back at college ¬¬ But I will continue to update . Anybob, hope everyone enjoys the chapter, please review and I shall continue onto chapter ten! – E.S_

**Warning: **_this chapter contains some explicit sexual references and scenes of a violent, upsetting nature. _

**Chapter Nine**

**"The Breaking of Banks"**

A reserved stony company they were, as Latham and Meghan sat atop their steeds as they proceeded back to the garrison. Glances were clandestine and conversation stale and to contribute to the dreary ambience, the iron-grey clouds which had brewed threateningly that morning, had converged themselves into one large, dark, ominous mass. Already, Meghan could the cold sting of stray raindrops beginning to fall upon her face.

'You come quietly,' said Latham, his eyes flicking to Meghan's surly form.

'Don't patronise me,' Meghan said shortly, her temper beginning to simmer dangerously, 'you know have no idea, do you? What it is like to lose someone and then learn that they are in fact … _alive_.'

Latham withdrew a sigh and an overwrought silence descended between them. At this, Meghan uttered a snort of laughter; his listless manner deeply infuriated her, which triggered a violent spark of guttural disbelief: how could he act in such a way?

'Of course you wouldn't would you, you do already do the "losing" with that sword of yours,' Meghan laughed coldly, her temper flaring beyond control, 'tell me, does it satisfy your needs when you feel its blade collide with a little' boy's skull, hmm? Does it make you grin when you feel his small skull begin to shatter from upon the impact and blood begins to –'

'- Enough!' Latham bellowed, and Meghan was faintly startled to see the crevassed contours of his face whiten, 'hold your tongue, insolent woman. I am not a sadist!'

Meghan abruptly fell silent. As much as she hated to admit it, she knew Latham spoke a fragment of truth. By the look in his eyes she knew he was carefully reading her thoughts.

'Sorry,' she mumbled, tightening her grasp on the reign. Her anger flickered and died and she numbly eyed the damp, clumpish strands of hair upon her horse's mane. Her muscles had relapsed languidly from their potent surge of use, but more so, nothing significant whirred in the cogs of her mind, save the gutturally annoying image of her being sitting serenely in a little fishing boat in the middle of a sea, heading to Scotland.

'You must understand that you have to return. I cannot afford to have my position blamed for you escaping, as that is what it looks like.'

Latham gave a haughty sniff, wrinkling his rather round nose and Meghan heaved a sigh, choosing not to speak no more.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Leather was an unpleasant thing to wear, especially in the rain. It stunk, it thickened, and it mildewed. Yet most unpleasant of all, it clung to the body in a clammy embrace, like the chill grasp of a drowned carcass. Stephen shivered. Damn his leather tunic. Scotland's weather had frowned upon him as soon as he stepped onto the land. Cursed dark clouds billowed ahead, helming the top of what seemed the horizon of a set of majestic mountains. But the vision was clouded by the opaque thrashing of the pelting rain. The men mumbled around him, as they retrieved weapons and waited for their friends to disembark the vessel which now flayed to the parry of the churning waves of the rocky pier.

'I love the thunder!' exclaimed a cheery voice over the hammering rain, 'looks like them clouds are going to throw lightening bolts!' Stephen looked down and saw the little boy Thomas grinning widely up at the sky. Rather than the boy appearing he had sailed to Scotland, it now looked as if he had determinedly swam there himself.

'Yup, it would be the Almighty himself sending us his welcome,' replied Stephen, grinning too. Thomas snorted. '_Welcome? _More like he's got the lightening in the wrong place – send them off down to London and all the Englandmen and thrust them up their - .'

' – ears lad, ears,' Stephen said laughing. Even though the lad was not his own, he was a man that discouraged the frequent use of profanities before youngsters.

'Yes _ears …'_ replied Thomas, cottoning onto why Stephen had interrupted him. An impish smile curved the small lad's face.

Stephen made to laugh but his ears had suddenly snatched onto a conversation being uttered behind him.

'Scottish rebellion you say? Goodness.'

'Aye – a group of highlanders I heard – being lead by a tall man named Wilbert Watkins -'

'Don't you mean "William", father? Dear me.'

'Oh aye – aye so they be not far from here, perhaps a few leagues …'

'What are you suggesting?'

'Well we came here to fight Sean, isn't that obvious?'

'Fuck's sake, are you saying we just _go _andfind this rebellion_ –'_

'Of course lad! Use your fucking noggin!'

'Language please, little ears in the vicinity.' That ought to grab their attention Father, thought Stephen, concealing a grin.The two men which had been speaking turned abruptly and saw Stephen standing before them. One was a gangling, youth with dark, beady eyes and a shock of white-blonde hair, which was cut into a severe lopsided trim. Standing beside him was unmistakably his father, employing similar facial looks and lanky physique (though slightly gone to seed). His hair was twisted in an untidy array of flyaway curls, which was intertwined into long, hasty braids. They hung piteously from his hair, barbarically reminding Stephen forcibly of hacked dog tails. They both surveyed Stephen in annoyance.

'I beg your pardon?' croaked the old man, raising a grizzled eyebrow.

'Little ears,' repeated Stephen grinning slightly as he, pushed Thomas forwards from beside him.

Immediately the men burst into a throe of barking laughter. Stephen raised his eyebrows in surprise.

'Little ears eh?' growled the old man, glaring at Thomas, 'wondered where the fuck you'd got to Thomas, what you been doing all this time?' Thomas hopped happily over to the old man and gave him a hug around his middle.

'Been talking is all,' he said sprightly, 'this man here – he's come to Scotland to come fight –'

'- Alright lad enough chit-chattering, so –' the old man surveyed Stephen critically, as did the youth, 'you come to fight as well?'

'Yup, don't mean to sound rude but you speak of a rebellion? Perfect!'

'_Perfect?' _piped up the youth incredulously.

'Shut up boy,' reprimanded the old man fiercely, cuffing him over the head. Thomas burst into a fit of giggles, swinging on the cuff of Sean's sleeve,

'Indeed,' grinned Stephen, 'in fact the Almighty himself pushed his finger over my body and brought me over the ocean here himself!' a spark of a joyous intrigue shot through Stephen, (_maybe from the lightening bolts, he mused crazily. The comical image of him skimming over the tossing waves of a sea being pushed along by a giant finger flitted through his mind's eye) _he lifted his head to the sky and yelled, 'isn't that right Father?'

Sean, the youth arched an eyebrow, looking stunned but his father gave a small chuckle.

'You are a man of your word?' said the old man.

'Yup,' smiled Stephen. Thomas laughed loudly and Sean rolled his eyes, perching one long arm upon a hip.

'I admire your faith,' he said, 'Roger's the name but my friends call me Jolly Roger, the reason for that, is that I may have to kill you.'

'Kill me?' exclaimed Stephen, expanding his blue eyes in mock fear and pretending to tremble.

'Aye,' laughed old Roger, wiping away a cheerful tear, 'it'd kill your mind from the boredom I'd be telling you!' he doubled over into a sudden spell of uncontrollable laughter at his own joke, serenaded by the high-pitched squeals of Thomas. Sean gave a groan, burying his thin face.

'You see that is exactly why people dub you as "Jolly" Roger, father,' alleged Sean testily, 'is because you're so jolly useless at telling jokes! You are brimmed with tall tales, overflowing with utter claptrap!'

'Mind of a poet my Sean,' grinned Roger, winking at Stephen who was feeling extremely buoyed by the old man's fanatical humour, 'but deluded, it's no wonder; he came out of his mother's womb the wrong way!' Sean groaned as his father lapsed into another peal of laughter.

'Either way, I don't really mind,' said Stephen, 'Stephen is my name, if you wanted to know.'

'Aye, the pleasure's ours' said Roger fervently, wringing the water out of one of his thick braids, 'Now, you're interested in this rebellion too you say?'

'Oh yes,' replied Stephen keenly, stepping forth, 'though you might want to tell us quick before we end up not getting dry till next month.' All three men cast the rain a weary look.

Roger quickly snatched his eyes onto Stephen, moving his head sharply like a wolf scenting prey. In this moment, the dim lights from the boat were reflected palely in his keen eyes and a smile split his face. Stephen returned it identically. Sean watched them both with a look of belying incredulity as little Thomas uncertainly observed them both with a half-smile.

'Indeed,' he said efficiently, offering his arm to Stephen, 'we shall converse it very thoroughly,' the old man adopted a very dire attempt at an English accent, 'as gentlemen of course, my plans to fight the English were unclear, but by your will and expertise, we shall volunteer to join this rebellion. I expect we shall hear more about it in the nearest Inn. Come.'

'We travel on foot father?' called Sean, as Roger started to walk off ahead with Stephen, clumsily interpreting an English soldier march. He paused.

'Of course by fucking foot boy!' he hollered without turning around, 'unless you thought you had the God-given power to fly there yourself.'

With an irate grunt and sharp nod of his thin head, he proceeded down a murky road which was distinguishable through the semi-gloom of the closing evening. All around Stephen, men, some women with children, were dispersing in different directions, concerted into dwarf groups, comparable to his own. A new next stage this indeed was. An unknown which always kept him anticipating, keeping him fresh on the tip of his feet. No longer would he have a moment to standstill and allow the dark thoughts of the past, yield him. He was hungry for the unknown to come fast, to quickly pass under his feet until he found his peace, and oh how he would relish it.

_English here I come … all I have now are these new fine folk and you Father. Yes. I do. Indeed. Scottish rebellion who would have thought, Father you sly dog! Thank you; you point your finger in an excellent direction._

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

_Meghan's own breathing had quickened as she caressed the strong moist muscles of Stephen's chest, her palms running along his broad shoulders, as he lay poised over her. He kissed her palm gently when it was within reach and brandished a smile so devastating that it pierced her heart like a blade. It painted her cheeks a fierce red but her lips pulled into a wide, warm smile of glowing content. _

'_Meghan,' Stephen managed to speak, somehow, 'You have undone me,' his voice escaped him in a hoarse whisper._

'_Just, tell me those three words,' said Meghan gently, feeling her head sink back into the pillows, giddy with pleasure._

_Stephen nuzzled slowly down, stroking his lips against the softness of her chest. The words almost choked out of him. 'I … I love you …' _

Meghan clanked her knife and fork down forcefully onto her plate, as her thoughts strayed into secret territory. Her hand returned the feel of cold, abysmal cutlery and her eyes met with an abhorrent grinning chicken leg. Food after food, oh how it grated her that she had sunk back into the routines of sitting at the cursed table, wrapped in its sheer ennui. All around her nothing and no-one had changed. It was as if she had not ran back to her home and found out he was alive! These thoughts must have appeared on her face because Aldrich's brisk English voice piped up from the end of the table.

'Do you not like your chicken?'

Chicken.The man was banging on about _chicken. _Meghan's hand shook as she clenched her fork.

'Yes,' she simpered sweetly, spearing a small chunk and swallowing it.

'Good,' Aldrich remarked in a thin voice, sipping his wine. Did he ever stop drinking it? 'I still expecting an answer from you my dear Meghan,' he put down his wine and wiped his mouth, 'accompany me to my chambers you will this night.'

'P- Pardon me my lord?' stammered Meghan. Before Aldrich had the chance to reply, a nurse meekly entered the room. She swapped an approving nod with Aldrich before gently lifting up little Alden who had been sculpting his squashed potatoes into a mountain range. His tired mumblings of 'mother' drifted from him as he was slung limply over the nurse's shoulders. As soon as the door slammed, an echoing silence filled up the room.

'No need to look so worried,' said Aldrich, eyeing her closely, 'meal time is over. So is nearly the week. And I would very much like you to be by my side this night.'

Meghan felt the back of her throat coat with bile. She swallowed hard and fixed her face firmly into an unreadable expression.

'You have been kind enough already,' she said, 'you need not request for anything much else.'

'This is not a request,' said Aldrich slowly, 'you will, accompany me.'

Meghan did not answer. She did not want to cause uproar. She merely watched Aldrich rise from his chair, looking expectant. He waited for her to do the same. Slowly, he shifted over to the door and opened it, waiting for her to pass through. She did just that, moving stuporously, as she went, her eyes fixed rigidly on the floor.

Down darkened corridors they then proceeded, straight to the quarters of Aldrich. The heavy scraping of his leather boots against the stone floor resonated behind her, ringing off the brick walls. Try not to think of an alternative, Meghan thought feverishly as vague notions began to whir in her mind, just try and see where this goes; you are not a woman with a natural blazing temper.

'Here we are,' he said quietly behind her, 'please enter.' Out of the corners of her eyes she saw him extend his hand and push open the wooden door in front of them. She entered and drifted over to a plush armchair, sitting tentatively on the edge of it, cupping her chin in her hands as she rested her elbows upon her lap. The room betrayed the ominous events that she knew would occur in it. A welcoming fire crackled in a far corner licking the exterior of an intricate granite furnace. It illuminated a highly polished grand four-poster bed which was ornamented with profound, purple velvet curtains. It subjugated the room. And upon the wooden floor, deep red carpets elaborated with complex patterns stripped across it. The room was a pauper's paradise but to Meghan, it disgusted her. She wrapped her arms around her chest and she realised she was trembling.

Across the room and completely oblivious to her anxious state, Aldrich was beginning to undress. With a stabbing intrigue, Meghan lifted her head and saw that the old man was only standing in a pair of unbuckled breeches. He was carefully folding some tunics upon the bed. But it wasn't this bizarre behaviour which vaguely caught her interest; no, it was the drooped muscles which lined his withered chest. Half-healing cuts streaked across his chest from recent fights and pearly scars glinted from the firelight. She had not seen him so starkly in the flesh before. However, without warning, Aldrich then quickly pulled off his breeches and stood unpleasantly in a pair of limp, greying underpants, leaving not much else for the imagination. He too folded the breeches carefully upon the bed but Meghan just could not get her eyes off the pallid, skinny legs that were unveiled. Why, from underneath the powerful bulk of his armour he was reduced to nothing more than a shrivelled weed, declined to the mere facade of a small boy.

Meghan gulped back a moan of anxiety; his appearance unnerved her.

Humming tunelessly, Aldrich finally turned towards her and Meghan felt herself pale. He strode over, attempting to smile.

'You look as if you're going to the gallows,' he laughed lightly, 'stand please.'

Meghan stood and felt him draw nearer, his shoulder length grey hair scraped behind his ears. The dreaded familiar touch of withered fingers on her shoulders gently undoing her corset began to touch her skin, his touch surprisingly warm. She flinched and turned around to face him, holding the corset tightly to her chest as she felt it become fully undone.

'Please,' she begged quietly, feeling herself tremble, 'please.'

Aldrich did not smile at her. 'There's nothing to be afraid of,' he said as soft as he could, his pale eyes glinting intently from beneath their wizened eyelids, 'I have never hurt a woman.'

Meghan said nothing but slowly turned her back to him by the urge of his hand. As if in a dream she felt the corset fall flaccidly from her skin, hearing its soft material collide gently with the stone floor. _oh Lord …_She stared at it vaguely, feeling a vulnerable emptiness as she sensed Aldrich's stare simmer at the skin of her exposed back. She felt a hand place itself on her hip, forcing her to slowly turn around. She did, crossing her arms tightly to hide her white busts; a region on her body which she had only ever allowed Stephen to have a full taste of.

'Let me see them,' Aldrich said steadily, failing to keep the note of longing desire out of his tone. _Jesus lord … Jesus … _Meghan shakily moved her arms, as she felt them being moved aside by Aldrich. She was wilting into him, quelling under the formidableness of the position. 'Please,' she mumbled, as a pair of wrinkled hands began to languidly caress the surfaces of her nipples, 'please … don't do it. You would not understand why I'm telling you to stop.' Aldrich pretended not to hear her as his eyes closed from the pleasure of kneading her busts.

'I can't marry you,' Meghan managed to gasp weakly, her eyes beginning to sting. Aldrich continued to ignore her, as his hands began to awkwardly wander down the curves of her hips, his fingers moving with the twitchy gait of a spider. He moaned, immersed in his pleasure and a course of repulsion shot through Meghan. With a frightened gasp, she sharply withdrew from him, pushing his hands violently aside. 'I can't marry you Aldrich. Today I found out that my husband still lives. I married him before I met you, and married to him I remain.'

'Don't be so ridiculous woman,' Aldrich murmured vaguely, a drunken smile curving the corners of his lined mouth, 'we've had a child, tis blasphemy if we don't marry.'

'It's blasphemy to me if I don't find him,' Meghan said, hot angry tears beginning to trickle down her face. Aldrich did not heed her, he still seemed dazed within his course of pleasure from when he had explored her breasts. His hands then reached out, the fingers waggling expectantly, when Meghan raised one of her legs and kicked him in the stomach with all the force she could muster. Of course Aldrich had been too enveloped in his own small world of covetous yearning, to repel the blow.

The impact forced him to stagger blindly back and his head hit one of the posts of the great bed. He sank to the floor and he gave a startled yelp as the pain began to throb at his skull, pulling him out of his reverie. Meghan snatched a blanket from a nearby bed, covering her torso and shakily strode over to him, feeling no sympathy that the old man had been hit. Aldrich stared up at Meghan's infuriated form, a frown knitting his brow.

'Is it an apolagy you want Meghan?' he said quietly, 'I am sorry if you have suffered losses but after the attack on your body I've given you a good place to live. We – you have a fine son and when we wed,' a sting pain throbbed his skin, and he pulled a few strands of grey hair out of his eyes, 'ouch, Meghan, you can learn to love me, people do. Couples do,' he blinked naively up at her and gave a sigh, 'I'm not an unemotional man, Meghan, I – I only want us to grow a bond of love, seeing as it is only I who you have left' he trailed off weakly, and he rose slowly, his legs staggering slightly and advanced, 'please just let me –' he reached out both his hands towards Meghan, as if he was a blind man walking.

A pleading look blazed in his eyes, very similar to Meghan's earlier from when she had begged him to stop touching her. Meghan backed away as he walked to her and the intense build up from all what had ached her body and soul – from losing her only son, from being confined and dragged back to her hell, from not being able to mourn for Stephen and now learning that he was alive – broke loose.

In a blind daze of angry tears, and insurmountable fury, she snatched a sword from his armour stand and cleanly drove the blade through Aldrich's wrinkled stomach. For every memory she could remember of her Logan's head being battered she felt Aldrich's spinal chords break, for every drop of blood she could remember engraved on Stephen's body she felt Aldrich's stain her palms, as the blade sliced through his body as easily as butter.

For a few lingering moments, she held the handle of the sword firmly in her sweaty hands, as she pulled Aldrich close to her vehement face, gasping slightly.

'I won't marry you,' she hissed coldly, 'never. Stephen lives.'

Aldrich's face began to sag, drooping in the sweeping agony which passed through every ailing limb in his aged body.

'– _he_ told me that, and you' he managed to croak, but then the life which had once stirred behind his pale eyes dimmed. Meghan felt his body sag heavily against her own and in a state of shock; she pushed him away, vaguely watching his body limply hit the floor with a dull thud. Who was _he?_ Who had told him what?What did Aldrich mean? The dead corpse of Alden's old father offered her no answer.

'Oh my God, woman what have you done?'

Meghan whipped round and saw Latham standing in the doorway, the blood draining fast from his face as he stared at his dead lord. She cast her eyes vaguely onto Aldrich's bloodstained stomach.

_What on earth had she done?_

_- - - - -_

_Ahh you'll just have to find out till next time. _


	10. The Birth of New Stages

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

_Well as they say in Scotland – "Och!", indeed "Och!" sums up my frustration recently - finally chapter ten is done, because the other day my other pc broke ¬¬ so I am not a happy bunny, but it now rots in a dump in the city (hah!) Aaaaanyway moving on, as always a big thanks to LazyChestnut from reading this story so far from the beginning and giving forth good reviews, and so I present to you all chapter ten. Please review and I shall proceed to chapter eleven ) – E.S_

**Chapter Ten**

"**The Birth of New Stages"**

'_What have you done?' _

Meghan sniffed and raised her eyebrows at Latham, securing the blanket tighter about her waist. When she failed to respond to Latham, he strode forwards and grabbed her tight about the shoulders, staring wildly into her face.

'Answer me!' he hissed. Meghan stared vacantly back at him, vaguely noticing how much the tightened lines around Latham's mouth had pursed with fear. It did not perturb her; she languidly tilted her head, glancing at Aldrich's splayed corpse. His head lay crooked to one side, with his eyes and mouth opened in a vague expression. And piteously sticking out of his stomach was the sword. It was slowly sinking back to the ground due to its enfeebled stance, procuring fresh streams of crimson blood to begin their winding journey from the large gash. They seeped straight onto the wooden floor, gathering into small puddles.

'Didn't I tell you,' she murmured in a low voice, her gaze flicking back to Latham, 'I don't belong here.'

'Too true you don't,' Latham said, his mounting anger and panic disabling him from steady speech, 'you - we, if this gets out we will be killed! Oh God. You - You stupid, selfish bitch!'

'NO I'M NOT!' Meghan suddenly shrieked, stumbling back from Latham, her whole body was shaking and her eyes were wide with a wild, angry madness; she looked a mess, 'DON'T YOU _EVER _SAY THAT TO ME! I AM GETTING OUT OF HERE! NOT _ONCE _HAVE YOU EVER REGARDED - ANYTHING! I am going to go back and find Stephen, -' she tripped over a chair leg and fell clumsily to the floor, falling a mere metre away from Aldrich's body. His gormless face gazed blankly at her. Meghan gave a frightened squeal and recoiled, quickly crawling away.

'Old man had what was coming to him,' she said quietly, clutching her knees with trembling hands, 'he had no idea. And neither do you.'

Latham stared at her, from the shadows on the other side of the room. Indeed, she spoke the truth. The brutal truth. She had hit him and made a bid for freedom. Yet he had not known what was coming to him. He had not known her intent. Little hellcat, he thought, no-one is going to believe that Aldrich was murdered by his own "wife". If anybody knew, his position of a high ranking officer, high-guard of the noble would be severely knocked. He, the man who had been instructed to spend more time with Meghan would be immediately blamed.

Questions would be asked: why had he not stopped her? Call himself a guard? A soldier? A man? More like a failure entwined into a fool, not even able to discipline or control a woman. A common girl, the "Lord's whore" and he himself would be labelled to something near to a traitor. Oh, how his pride would be laughed at. He would be degraded let alone be possibly sentenced. Latham felt the blood leave his face and he stroked his chin in thought, the hairs pricking up on the back of his neck. What to do ….

'You have blood on your hands,' he said faintly in to the deathly silence of the room. He walked over to Meghan. His scuffed leather boots stopped before her recoiled form and he held out his hand for her to take, 'but we're in this together. There's no going back.'

'Then let me leave,' Meghan said, a note of quiet desperation, as she stood taking Latham's hand, 'leave a nanny take care of Alden, say his mother perished of - illness or something. And you - you can say -'

'- hush,' said Latham tacitly, he put a paunchy finger on her lips, 'look at him,' he moved her head to look at Aldrich, 'you have killed a defenseless man, Alden's own father.'

_Alden's own father … killed... murdered … _

Meghan's breathing rapidly quickened as she observed Aldrich's corpse with intense fear, it whistled raggedly through her nose, heaving her chest up and down, Latham stopped speaking and looked at her in confusion.

'Meghan?'

Meghan's throat constricted and she doubled over, opening her mouth as a river of vomit issued from it. Her head grew light and her body collapsed clumsily to the floor. She had fainted. Swooned at the very sight of Aldrich. Shaking his head, Latham scooped up her flaccid form and placed it carefully upon the bed. Briefly, as he stood beside her, his fathomless brown eyes flew to Aldrich's blank ones.

'Thus passes Aldrich Harrington, tenth noble of Harrington estate.' he murmured, his lips curling.He walked slowly over, bent down and shut Aldrich's open mouth which had been gaping at the window. With a grim nod, Latham stood up and left the room; he had preparations to attend to.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'Volunteers coming in!'

The voice reverberated across the air, resonating through the trunks of trees. Stephen looked around the wood and saw groups of sitting men cock their heads up at the sound of the voice. As far as he could see, he saw men sat down languidly before fires, sharpening weapons and chopping wood. Good men they were, he thought, he could see the hunger of determination, very much like his own, to fight the English linger in their eyes. Their hearty mumblings of their voices filled up the grove.

So here was the rebellion. His heart skipped a beat and beside him, he swapped a glance with Roger. In front of them both, a young Irishman Stephen had seen vaguely on the boat, presented himself before a small congregation of Scottish men that were eating from a small pot of stew.

'My name is Faudron, my sword is yours, I've come to die for ya,' he said, taking a deep bow at the feet of a tall man. A few of the Scottish men laughed quietly at this, as Stephen watched Faudron steadily, carefully assessing everything about him. 'Stand up man I'm not the pope,' laughed the tall man. Faudron rose, smiling amusingly and he reached inside his tunic for something. Stephen watched intently and saw to his disbelief that Faudron had whipped out an ornately sewn cloth.

'I brought you this,' he said, handing it to the tall man, 'my wife made it for ya.'_ Fucking hell, Father, thought Stephen rolling his eyes, fucking butter it up for all it's worth, why not try offering to be the man's personal arse wiper next time_. A sardonic smile split his face and he strode forwards, laughing to himself.

'Him? That can't be William Wallace; I'm much prettier than this man,' Stephen strode confidently into the group, making his way over to the pot over the fire. He bent down and took the ladle, shoveling down a hearty mouthful of stew without being offered. _Mmm fine venison Father,_ he mused as he swallowed a few mouthfuls down his throat. He then turned his head abruptly to the sky, 'alright Father I'll ask them, If I risk my neck for you? Will I get a chance to kill Englishmen?'

Stephen spoke directly to the tall man before him, waiting for a reply. Suddenly he heard a sardonic voice to his left.

'Is your father a ghost or do you converse with the Almighty?'

_Ah an enquiring mind is he not Father? Right as rain,_ chuckled Stephen inside, he felt his eyes light up with his internal laughter_. The man is brawny and vicious looking, with a shock of red hair twisted about his potato-looking face; well I don't let appearances deceive me … lets see Father …_

'In order to find his equal, an Irishman is forced to talk to God,' replied Stephen, 'yes, Father. The Almighty says don't change the subject; just answer the fucking question.' Stephen doubled over in a peal of laughter but the red-headed Scotsman did not crack a smile. _Fuck's sake, did I enter a land where men are as staid as mourners at graves?_

'Mind your tongue,' said the red-headed Scotsman sternly, his eyes flashing.

'Insane Irish,' piped up the voice of an old man. Stephen's head whirred madly. _Insane … insane Father, hah! Let's just see if they have THIS coming to them … _deep in the folds of his leather tunic, Stephen whipped out a small dagger and struck it toward the skin of the old man's throat. The old Scot did not even flinch but gazed steadily down at Stephen who watched impressively as the others immediately raise their swords and spears straight at him. _Clever lot … alert as the wolf … watchful as the hawk… fuck me Father … talk about a test of faith._

'Smart enough to get a dagger past your guards, old man?' asked Stephen, looking directly into the Scot's face. The old man glanced at the tall Scot Stephen had seen Faudron talk to earlier and he pointed his sword further at Stephen's chest.

'That's my friend, Irishman,' he said calmly, 'and the answer to your question is yes; if you fight for me you get to kill the English.' He blinked and Stephen was slightly astonished to see such striking blue eyes stare at him from beneath his eyelids. A wide grin cracked his face, 'excellent,' he said, promptly moving his hand away from the old man's throat and putting the dagger back in its sheath, 'Stephen is my name. I'm the most wanted man on my island, except I'm not on my island, of course. More's the pity.'

He gained a few laughs as he said this, more notably from old Roger and Sean, who stood several metres away, observing the scene with intense amusement.

The brawny, red-headed Scotsman raised a bushy eyebrow.

'Your island? You mean Ireland.'

_Aye, Ireland; land of the fair and of the brave, isn't that right Father? You best be keeping them safe. _'Yeah,' said Stephen, smiling somewhat, 'it's mine.' A laugh began to grow in his chest at the man's incredulity, and behind him he heard others joining in; it buoyed his spirits.

'You're a madman,' alleged the red-headed Scot, grinning cynically. Stephen even felt he heard a distant, echoing laugh in his own ears …is that you Father? _Yup, __you're humouring me too aren't ya?_

'I've come to the right place then,' grinned Stephen, as all the men around him lapsed into jovial laugher and began back to attending to their jobs and meals.

- - - - - - - - - - -

'_What have I said about pointing your sword that way?' _

_A small boy with feathery auburn hair ran rapidly around the trees, brandishing a stick playfully at a man. 'Hoy yahhh!' he yelled, charging straight in front of him. The man dodged his son and crept up behind a tree, grabbing him deftly by the waist. 'Boo! Couldn't get a stick past your old man could ya, eh?' the man laughed as he ruffled the boy's hair, holding him firmly against his chest. The boy wriggled about laughing madly, trying to escape._

'_Yes I could,' laughed the lad, 'someday.'_

'_Yup.'_

'_Don't tell ma but I've been teasing the dog again.'_

'_Again? But, I won't' grinned Stephen, tapping Logan's nose, 'though next time he might bite your hand off, so it's best if I tell you not too. It's our secret.'_

_It's our secret _

… _Secret … _

Meghan awoke to feel a gentle rumbling beneath her body. She slowly sat up and looked blearily around; she had been sleeping in the thick folds of a small bed inside of what was unmistakably a carriage. _What? … _Something clammy and wet touched her arm and she started in surprise, only to see a small dog nestled beside her, it gave a sharp, excited bark, fervently wagging its tail as it realized she was awake.

'Shhh,' said Meghan impatiently, briefly stroking the canine's ears in a bid for it too calm. But it only got more energized by the sound of her imploring voice, its high-pitched happy barks filling up the hut. Meghan groaned. 'Am I going to have to throw you out this carriage myself for you to shut up?' Nope. The dog sat up and began circling its tail on the floor, yapping joyfully. Meghan gave a defeated sigh and sank back into the blankets, her mind reeling. Where in God's name was she? Her question was answered when she saw the inside door knob begin to turn and Latham entered.

'Finally she is awake,' he said briskly, smiling to himself. He sat down on a bench opposite her, allowing for the dog to jump happily onto his lap and lick his face, 'we thought we were going to have to pay for your burial.'

'Pardon me?' Meghan croaked, her eyes widening.

Latham laughed at her surprise and absentmindedly pushed the dog's face from his head as it tried to lick his ears, as it barked loudly. Meghan scowled.

'Don't jest,' she muttered irritably picking at her nails, 'and shut that bloody dog up.'

'Hush Donn,' said Latham casually, the dog calmed and lay down on the bench, resting it's head on his lap, staring adoringly up at Latham with its large, chocolate brown eyes.

'Where the hell am I?' Meghan said, speaking to the ceiling from where she lay. Latham could only see her restless arms waving in the air and her red hair streamed messily about the cotton pillows.

'You are in a carriage on the way to London.'

'_London?' _Meghan exclaimed jolting up from the bed, frowning over at Latham. He observed her reaction amusedly.

'Yes London,' he replied lazily, absentmindedly scratching Don's ears, 'an inquest has been made into Aldrich's death, and with my being a general, I have needed to go to London to confirm it over with the King.'

Of course, _the marriage … the sword … the death of Aldrich … his murder … _Meghan paled and she gave a suppressed gasp, her palms beginning to feel cold and sweaty. _Latham wouldn't …_

'You're taking me to London' she said quietly, 'oh God … how could you?'

Latham rolled his eyes at her panicked state. 'Not _you _silly girl, _we. _Nobody knows it was you. I have said to everyone who has asked, that the old fool – pardon me- his lordship was poisoned by an unknown assassin. I ordered the guards to search the place only to naturally discover no-one, relax, the whole calamity has been smoothed over,' he leaned back and heaved a yawn, 'we've been traveling for five days in England yet you my dear have given us enough trouble. When you fainted from looking at his corpse, -'

'Don't –' moaned Meghan, flopping back into the bed as the ghastly image came crawling into her head.

'– you came down with a fever. So for our benefits you took a turn for the worse, only now you have finally awakened, by the useful loud barking of Donn here,' he gave the dog an affectionate pat and it leapt up and began furiously licking Latham's nose.

'How kind of you to place that dog with me,' muttered Meghan irritably from the bed, 'my head has never felt so bad. So we're off to London, to confirm Aldrich's death. Why do you need me?'

Latham gave a small smile, and the austere lines in his face momentarily softened. 'I have no doubt that King Edward will know of William Wallace's whereabouts –'

'William who?'

Latham laughed, 'oh yes I forgot, you've been asleep for a week and a half, Wallace my dear lady is a leader of a disreputable Scottish rebellion, so I have no doubt that your husband will have joined him. He's gone to Scotland to fight you say, well there you have it.' He abruptly stood up from the bench, immediately adopting a more business-like manner. Donn slid off his lap and landed onto the wooden floor, barking sadly. 'Then I will not object if you wish to find him but you must inform me, we will sort it; because we do not need a debacle like last time because killing King Edward would most certainly have you found and hanged. Possibly worse.'

Meghan slowly sat up from the bed, staring at Latham with her mouth half-open. Her mind was whirring madly from trying to decode all of the new information.

'And as soon as we arrive in London, you will be known as my "wife", understood?'

Meghan's jaw dropped but knew it would be much worse if anyone found out her true identity. Reluctantly she gave a small nod and sank back into the bed, pulling the sheets tightly up to her nose. She curled her toes and released a contented sigh as she felt a wave of warmth spread through her body. Rolling his eyes, Latham left the carriage.


	11. A Woman of Enquiry

**A/N: **_The chapter before Stirling. Longshanks is rather tricky to write about, without making him look like a typical villain. Sorry for the waffle in this chapter. Please review! _

**Chapter Eleven**

"**A Woman of Enquiry"**

London. She was finally in London.

Meghan did not think she could stand the confinement of the carriage any longer. Luxurious as it was, it wasn't her taste and unfortunately Donn, had started to lick her toes when she was asleep. _Damn dog …_

'Here we are,' rang Latham's voice from outside the carriage.

Meghan shifted her gaze and peered out the window. What she saw was one of the most surprising sights of her life. London; never had anywhere seemed so crowded and big. Winding streets stretched as far as the eye could see and situated the centre of the city, was a hulking stone tower. No doubt this was the Tower of London. It appeared ominous and dark, stretching superiorly above the other buildings, its windows glaring down at them, shrouding them in its domineering shadow.

_So that's where the King lives … grand on the outside yet cold within … maybe … _

The carriage trundled over a moat which entered through some oak doors. They were flanked by guards who were dressed in armour and foul, orange cloaks.

Meghan ducked; she had always been wary of English soldiers, even living among them for four years. They were such a hateful kind of men; bred like dogs to stand upright as if they had cucumbers thrust up their arses and lips pursed in a sneering kind of way. Pfft. Thank fuck she was Irish … Irish men were twice the men they were … and she knew all to well …

When Meghan looked up, they had entered the heart of London. The atmosphere was heaving; stall sellers hollered at every turn in their cockney accents, merchants entertained crowds with extravagant merchandise, whilst customers jostled about with money in their hands; people trundled by with carts filled with every vegetable imaginable.

Meghan sighed, she knew which life she preferred – market day back in Ireland was bad enough!

Finally the carriage entered through another set of doors, into a courtyard.

'Halt,' declared a voice.

The carriage stopped and the carriage door opened. A soldier's hand appeared, helping her descend the steps. Meghan did, careful not to tread on the hem of her dress, that Latham had instructed her to wear. She hated the garment; it's fabric scratched her skin and her corset felt tighter than usual. But nevertheless, she stood beside Latham, appearing the dutiful and doting wife.

He smiled at her but Meghan ignored him.

A general appeared, greeting them with a large smile.

'Welcome, general Latham,' he said, whilst glancing at Meghan, "a comfortable journey, I hope?" He did not wait for a reply. "His majesty awaits you in due course … I presume the Lady would like to be shown to her quarters?'

Meghan opened her mouth uncertainly but Latham cut across her.

'Indeed she would, Hamilton. When would I be meeting with his majesty? Unfortunately, I bring ill news.'

'So it has been heard,' replied Hamilton soberly, 'a meeting takes place this noon; his majesty awaits your company with much anticipation, he had always favoured Lord Harrington. But please, he requests you settle in first. A long journey it has been, no doubt … and I'm sure the lady would like to indulge in some home comforts.'

His eyes studied Meghan appraisingly, who gave a small smile, whilst forcing her neck to nod meekly at his words. _Oh Jesus … _she thought, _this is really degrading … _

Without another comment, Hamilton gave a swift, approving nod and strode away. Before Meghan had time to hitch up her skirts, she was steered by Latham's vice-like hand up the stone steps and into the castle.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Would the lady like some tea?"

"What?"

A mousy maid appeared at the door, looking expectant, holding aloft a diminutive tea-tray. Meghan turned from probing the interior of her assigned room and frowned.

"Would my lady like some tea?" she repeated, somewhat shier.

"Oh …'"said Meghan, realising she was being waited upon. The idea was quite alien, she thought, even though she had had her meals cooked for her in the garrison where she had stayed with Aldrich, she had always chosen to serve herself where possible. 'Yeah, that would be fine.' She placed her hand to her mouth in alarm as the maid gave her a quizzical look. She had descended into her Irish accent. Wearing the fetid, itchy clothes of the rich was bad enough but talking like an English woman was even worse …

"Yes," repeated Meghan, forcing a simpering smile, "that would be lovely. Pray tell when I shall be acquainted with my dear husband and of course, the majestic King Edward?'

_Yup, sugarcoat the whole act, truly puff it up, they ought to lap it up. That's what you would do wouldn't it Stephen? Oh how you would laugh. _

The maid dipped a curtsy and bustled into the room, placing the tea tray on a table.

"A meeting happens in the lower chambers of this castle my lady. An escort shall take you in about an hour. You shall briefly attend the meeting - an honour that is for a woman," she added, a slight edge to her voice. She gave another curtsy and walked swiftly out of the room.

When she reached the door, Meghan called her.

"Thank you very much my dear, yet would you mind if you shut this door behind you? It is awfully draughty in here, I very much dislike getting my feet cold, it's frightfully dreadful, you see.' Meghan plastered a silvery smile onto her face at the maid; playing the prissy wife of the general was the perfect part for now.

"Of course," smiled the maid, whose shy demeanor had vanished. "Anything else, milady?"

"No, you may go."

As soon as she shut the door behind her, Meghan flumped herself onto the plush four poster, deflating with exasperation.

"Fucking hell …" she seethed, limply throwing a scatter cushion to the floor. "How long does this go on for?"

- - - - - - - -

'Rebellion. _Rebellion_ they say, tell me my fellow officers, what does that word mean to _any_ of you?'

Longshanks paced restlessly up and down the room, his metal boots clanking ominously upon the walls. His officers, who were decked up and down a long table, exchanged uncertain looks and the air was injected with the murmur of their desultory answers.

'What do you mean my lord?' enquired a lanky youth clad in chain mail. Longshanks turned around slowly, his cold eyes boring at the young man who shrank away. A sneer curled his lips.

"You are a bold lad to question the King," he said quietly. A disconcerted hush fell on the council members and they waited with bated breath for the blow to fall.

"You have a name, boy?"

The youth automatically studied the floor. "S-Spencer Griffin, my Lord. Son of Daniel Griffin, the Stable Master. He suggested that I come to this meeting in his stead because he's –"

"Importing horses from Dover," finished Longshanks, still studying the youth called Spencer with steely eyes.

"Yes he is."

A tall man with a large moustache, beside Spencer gave a snort of disapproval. "You should not speak until you're spoken to, boy! Such insolence! Men have been hanged for less!" Spencer glanced up at him, alarmed, but the tall man whacked him over the head. "Look at the King, boy!"

Spencer twisted a pale face to Longshanks, who had finally taken his eyes off him. "Hamilton is right," he wheezed, stroking his beard in thought. "But you do voice a very good point, my boy. What do I mean by rebellion?" he sat down and laughed unpleasantly. "None of you here understand its seriousness."

His cold eyes swept over the members of the council, who shifted uncomfortably in their seats, none daring to speak. Longshanks ignored their reaction. By God he felt old … a lifetime of war ached in his bones, and now, just when he was nearing his seventieth winter, one man could threaten to lose his iron hold upon Scotland. _William Wallace … _

The man with the moustache cleared his throat. "Forgive us sire, but we _do _understand your anger. We –"

Longshanks looked up at Hamilton. "No, Hamilton, you don't. You are not a King, so you do not understand the frustration knowing that your kingdom is being burned by savages, which I have fought so hard to obtain!" He pounded the table, upsetting a goblet of wine.

"Please, sire," continued Hamilton, "nobody is denying –"

"And my wretch of a son cannot be bothered to attend this meeting ... and for what?" Longshanks got to his feet with alarming vigour. "He's scared of William Wallace! That heathen who has caused this _calamity … _this debacle … this …" he fought for words, but the youth Spencer unthinkingly corrected him:

"Problem?"

The council member's held their breath, exchanging looks of alarm. Hamilton whacked Spencer across the head.

"Cur! What did I say?"

"Enough," overrode Longshanks nastily. "Of course I know it's a problem, boy," he strode over close to Spencer. "Why you are here instead of your father is beyond me. That dog of a man was always so foolish."

A flush began to creep up Spencer's neck, from the insult at his father. "I'm sorry sire," he said, swallowing and gazing up into the King's craggy face. Longshanks snorted, and swept from the youth's side, pacing again up and down the hall in his irritable fashion.

"I have_ also_ been informed by my brother, Edmund Crouchback, that his friend Lord Aldrich Harrington has been murdered in Ireland," Longshanks pierced his council with a glare, but none had anything to say on the topic, apart from Spencer who half-heartedly raised his hand.

He pursed his lips.

"Where is General Latham?" he snapped.

'Well?'

'He should be here any minute my lord,' said Hamilton quickly, whilst holding Spencer's arm firmly to the table. At his words, the door opened and Latham entered with Meghan sullenly bringing up the rear.

"At last," wheezed Longshanks, striding forth with an unnatural smile on his face. "General Latham …"

Both men embraced, as Meghan watched, stony-faced. _Such a false reunion …_

"I believe you have some news for me," asked Longshanks, regarding Meghan as part of the wall.

Latham nodded grimly. "I do. I come to you sire, accompanied with my … my wife Lady Meghan," he prodded her in the back, and she forced a curtsy. Again, Longshanks ignored her.

"The news?" pressed the King.

"Ah – yes," muttered Latham, scratching his chin. "I can confirm, most dourly, that Lord Aldrich Harrington is dead. He was murdered with a stab wound to the chest …" Meghan felt herself zoning out of Latham's waffle about how she killed Aldrich. It felt even worse to relive it front of the King … this monster who was stood before her. He reminded her of Aldrich, but even that doddery fool held some emotion in his eyes. But this man, the King, seemed to defy the word and as he listened to Latham, no sympathy flickered in his gaze.

"… We searched the castle and grounds and nobody was caught."

Meghan was brought back to the present, when Latham trod on her foot. Apparently she had been staring at the floor …

"Most unfortunate," Longshanks clipped tonelessly. "Any idea as to who would kill that honourable man?"

"An Irish rebel perhaps … in league with William Wallace," replied Latham, though he felt Meghan burning a hole in his head, "or simply a scumbag who hated the English rule."

"A likely guess," pointed Longshanks, "but no matter. The Irish rebel will soon see that his actions were folly," he gave a scathing laugh. "His actions were meaningless. Bloody Irish savage …"

"And why is that?" asked Meghan, before she could stop herself. Her arms were shaking with anger, but when she looked up at the King's face, she regretted speaking. Now that he fully regarded her, his eyes seemed to coat over with layer of frost.

"A woman of enquiry," derided Longshanks, with a laugh. Latham forced a smile, but took a mental note to berate the girl to kingdom come for her remark. "Well, the answer to your question madam is that when Wallace joins the peasant army in Scotland, lead by the nobles, he shall be leading a massacre. My heavy cavalry will crush them down like ants," Meghan's eyes widened but Longshanks mistook her fear for awe of his army. "Three hundred strong horseman, milady, ready to trample the Scottish savages. No army in a thousand years has thwarted such an assemblage. My goodness, the crows will have a feast. And if only they knew that the Scots had died with the shame of their foolishness … thinking they could defeat me!" Meghan felt the blood drain from her face and Longshanks grinned. "So you ought not to worry your pretty head."

A course of appreciative laughter followed this speech, among the officers, and Longshanks grinned wider. Meghan felt lost for words. She had watched the King's mouth move as he spoke, and horrible visions of Stephen played through her mind … if the Scottish army were defenceless, what chance had he? _Three hundred horseman … _

"I – I need not worry now," she mumbled, dipping a rigid curtsy.

Longshanks grinned again, but it was more of a leer.

"This meeting is over," he turned around to his councillors. "We shall assemble another meeting same time tomorrow, a day before I depart to France to extend my beloved son's kingdom," a few councillors chuckled darkly at his, and chants of _pactum serva _echoed jovially in the stony room. The mood had been lifted now that Latham had arrived. "But for now," Longshanks studied Latham, "will you dine this evening?"

Latham bowed deeply. "It would be an honour your majesty," Latham bowed, whilst subtly nudging Meghan to curtsy.


	12. The Battle Begins

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_well here is the battle of Stirling … flippin' coursework got in my way for the past couple of days which has delayed me to update. Anyways, I hope you al enjoy the chapter and please review ;-) – E.S_

**Chapter 12**

"**The Battle Begins"**

Trees.

Stephen had always loved them. They came in a pleasant array of sizes: tall, slim, gigantic, some maintaining altitudinous rangy branches and some with thicker, broader ones. Each characteristic was a little boy's paradise; what fun could be had when you can challenge yourself to reach for the upper kindling, and to sit upon one particular branch. That would surely promise a glorious view (and suffice a satisfied climb).

And whilst absorbing that sight, no-one would ever know you were there, camouflaged kindly by the curtain of green leaves before you. Well, that was exactly why Stephen loved trees, he knew as much about them to know automatically that someone would use their tall stature to hide behind.

He bent low in the undergrowth of a large, twiggy bush, with the mossy smell of the forest stifling his nostrils. He stared closely ahead of him through the gaps in the leaves; his fist was tightly clenched upon the handle of his sword that his knuckles had turned white and the loud, anticipated drumming of his heart, pounded loudly in his ears. It was amazing not a soul could hear it, save he, as he waited.

Loading a bow and angling it silently at a stag, stood William Wallace. His impressive, hushed movement had swept stealthily across the forest floor with effortless lissom, in a bid to not disturb the animal. And then, just as Stephen had calculated, he heard the distant, tell-tale snap of a twig. William was being stalked. But he was too absorbed in his concentration to heed the noise to be anything suspicious. He tightened his bow, and just when he was about to fire, the figure of Faudron materialised out of the greenery, his large, broad sword raised aloft above his head.

This was the moment. Stephen sprang noisily from the bush, startling the stag, and Wallace turned to face him, aiming his bow. But Stephen had already swung forth his blade; it slashed through the air in a blur of grey, slicing past William and straight into the chest of Faudron - Stephen could have fainted with relief! William stumbled in amazement, whipping around to see Faudron collapse pathetically to the floor with a mumbled groan, his sword slipping from his grasp.

_Strike!_ Thought Stephen joyfully, his mind doing cartwheels of glee …_ Father … you- are – an angel … _

Stephen dashed over and kneeled down to William's level; the man was breathless with shock. He surveyed Stephen with questioning blue eyes and Stephen's silent manner comprehended the immense answer for him; the crazy Irishman with the spry humour had saved his life. Feeling the cold steel press against his skin, Stephen held his hand firmly upon his sword which was sticking pathetically out of Faudron. At this sight, he suppressed a laugh which was building up in his throat.

'Sure didn't the Almighty send me to watch your back?' said Stephen darkly, staring carefully at William. He gave a dismissive noise, 'didn't like him anyway,' he added offhandedly. He briefly glanced at Faudron's gawking face, _heh … no more pretty offers to be sent our way by you, Faudron I think. It was too good to be true with your frippery piece of fabric, disturbingly; I would think you've sewn the flowery pattern on it yourself. _

He leant forwards to William, staring steadily into his face and he saw the startling blue eyes gaze enquiringly back.

'He wasn't right in the head,' he muttered gruffly … _well clearly …_ and with a swift pat on his friend's back, he strode from William's side, roughly picking his sword out of Faudron's stomach as he went.

- - - - - -

Just as what Longshanks had stated, his Northern Army had reached Scotland, ready to annihilate the Scots upon the battlefield and on their own soil. The old king smiled humourlessly to himself as he tucked into a large leg of pork upon the boat over to France, his thoughts momentarily straying to the mental image of a general, proudly waving the English flag, whilst standing on the dismembered body of William Wallace (whose face resembled his own son.)

Yet even as Longshanks sailed across the grey English Channel, he had not even a single thread of acknowledgement of the yearning that traipsed in William's heart. Nothing perturbed that man and not even the sight of the imposing English army, who stood in their cloned, uniformed lines, laden with innumerable steel spears and glittering swords.

Over the weeks, Stephen had grown close to Wallace. The Irishman did not entirely know it yet, but he had become fully engrossed and infected by William's passion to fight. Not just for the freedom of Scotland and his kinsmen but more so for the underlying detail that he was avenging, in fact … a lover. The only woman he had ever loved. Oh how curiously similar was William's need to his own. Stephen had only heard snippets about William's fair wife; very much like Meghan. But she, along with many others had been butchered from the intent of the English blade.

This thought threatened to peel back the curtain of _those _memories, the ones which he valiantly kept locked within the shadows of his mind. An unspoken place. But no face looked as grave as his at that moment, as he stood, just another soldier, in the crowd of the Scottish army. Wallace had worked his charm upon the nobles. Of course, it was impossible to not be infected by Wallace's fervour; he was a born leader.

Yet as he rode up and down before the army, the nobles had the cheek to glance doubtfully at one another; how could anyone deny this man? Wallace's voice was strident, spurring, stimulatingly encouraging, as he bellowed his passion across to his brothers. Oh, the very pitch and tempo nearly brought Stephen to cry with his admiration for the man. This, was incredibly rare, he felt he could never wring out his body and produce another tear.

On his left stood old Roger, who was glaring at the English, his lips pursed in a tilted smile, it appeared to be more of a grimace. Beside him, stood his oldest son Sean. Unlike his undaunted father, the youth had turned comparatively pale as his eyes soaked up the sight of the inestimable cavalry. _Have faith lad, _Stephen found himself musing as he glanced at Sean's nervous state … _You have more strength than you know … _

He turned his attention back to William and realised that the man was riding his way. His startling light-blue eyes seared beneath the layer of blue woad which was painted thickly upon his face.

_Well Father, I wouldn't like to meet _him_ on the battlefield. _

'Fine speech,' stated Stephen, glancing at the English generals, 'now what do we do?'

William smiled grimly.

'I'm going to pick a fight.' They both noticed the nobles riding to meet the English generals in the centre of the field. Stephen exchanged a look with Hamish and the man shrugged his great shoulders.

'Well, we didn't get dressed up for nothing,' he said. _Indeed … _thought Stephen, smiling wryly, as Wallace started off, galloping fiercely down the bank upon his horse …_ I wonder how he will ruffle their feathers … surprise me Father … _

In no time at all, William had returned from his "fight" with the English generals. Stephen could see, by the pleased gleam in his eyes that he had gained the reaction he had desired. There would be no treaty or "negotiation". They would fight. Stephen fought not to smile as he relished the thought; _Thank you Father … thank you that I can _finally _emasculate the balls of one of these bastards … _With a rough clap on his horse's hide to send it away, William promptly joined the Irishman's side. A roguish grin was plastered prominently across his face. Stephen had no time to enquire, or return the humorous gesture, as the priests passed in front of the army, motioning the sign of the cross. Automatically, Stephen's knees curved into a kneeling stance, as he and the other Scots knelt in prayer.

"_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen"_ chanted the priests in Latin. Stephen kept his eyes glued to the ground, as the prayer of the Sign of the Cross washed over him … _reviving him._ And hidden beneath his bowed head, by the dangling mop of his dark hair, a lone tear slipped from his eyelids and soaked a minute speck of soil. Then, he and the rest arose, and for what seemed like an absolute eternity, the English and the Scots stared expressionlessly at one another. The howling, whistling wind at this point seemed the only thing breathing.

Then, the intense moment shifted; the air was pieced with the wild war cries from the Scots. Insults of every crass, crude and uncouth nature were hurled from every Scotsmen's mouth. Stephen was beside himself; he didn't know whether to laugh or cry with the wild, insane anger which was bucking inside of him.

An aged veteran on the front line, suddenly dropped his weapons and lifted his kilt, revealing his manhood clearly skyward.

_Nice view for you there Father, _Stephen thought humourously to himself.

The Scots surrounding their fellow comrade howled with laughter at his antics and quickly followed suit. This act was then spread like wildfire across the Scottish army and soon Stephen found himself immersed in the mass of Scottish men crudely displaying their penises. H felt his loins itching to be released and smell the breeze of the Scot's hollering defiance, but the rudely tightened trousers he wore would waste too much time to whip off. So instead he thrust out his pelvis, his hands jiggling his manhood in a tantalising fashion, laughing as he did.

From the other side of the field, a general named Cheltnam frowned in displeasure at the display of the Scots. Licking his lips with mutinous anger, he promptly instructed for the Archers to step forth.

'Loose!' yelled the general's voice.

Flags rose and soon the air was festooned with the thrum of bows being loosened. Arrows whistled through the sky, a huge gathering mass of hornets they sounded like, whose tell-tale angry buzz was intended to strike. Stephen momentarily felt his stomach jolt as all around him the Scot's silenced as they watched the arrows fly towards them. He wish they would speak, yell … _anything! _

'Fucking HELL FATHER!'

_Thrap Thrap Thrap! _

The arrows plummeted downwards upon the Scots. Shields were quickly raised yet many were splintered. And that was when Stephen heard the first shuddering yells of pain. Unlucky for some men, their penises and buttocks had been violently punctured by the arrows, as they swiftly found their targets. Many brushed passed Stephen's elbow and underneath the roof of his shield he sharply turned his head to face William, an intense maddened gleam in his eyes.

'The Lord tells me he can me out of this mess, but he's pretty sure you're fucked.'

In his head the mental image of a large bearded man, riding a chariot across the clouds and smiting rows of Englishmen with lightening bolts, flashed through his mind. Stephen felt the corners of his lips tow into a broad grin at the thought, and even more so by the panicked, bemused look that William gave him. The uncontrollable laugh he had caged inside his chest earlier burst its banks and it erupted loudly and abruptly from his mouth.

There was then a ringing silence. The rain of arrows ceased to penetrate the Scots. Yet, just as Stephen predicted, there was another stimulating roar from the army. By God would these men not be defeated.

He felt William jump sharply up from the ground, hastily waving his weapons to a group of Scottish horsemen upon a hill.

'Ride,' he yelled. The horsemen rode off swiftly over the horizon.

'What _is _he doing?' enquired a trembling voice. Stephen turned and saw Sean surveying William, who was readying his weapons, with utter incredulity. Besides that, the youth's arm was bleeding profusely from an arrowhead dislodged deeply into his shoulder; though the young lad seemed to be fighting all the strength he possessed to ignore it. 'Why is he sending the Scottish cavalry away?' he ogled at Stephen, 'we stand no chance now! He would sacrifice his own kinsmen? We're about to be trampled on by the English Cavalry like – '

'- Would you fucking shut that arse hole of yours Sean, or do I have do it for you?' interrupted old Roger's furious voice. The old man seemed incensed with determination and stiffly clutching his axe, he glared intently at his son, as if daring him to show a single crack of weakness. His eyes momentarily lingered on the arrow in Sean's arm. 'The man knows what he's doing.'

Sean gritted his teeth as another shoot of pain swept through his body. He stumbled on his feet but planted them firmly into the ground.

'I don't care what you think,' he muttered to his father who rolled his eyes, 'I do this for - _him_.'

Who "him" was, Stephen never found out because at that moment, another flag was raised. It was emblazoned with the picture of a horse. The menacing clatter of lances being positioned echoed across the field. The knights clanked together their steel armour, and started forth their steeds at an even pace. A wave of foreboding spread across the Scots and they exchanged looks of uncertainty. Gulping back his nerves, Stephen stared fixedly at the oncoming fleet, as if mesmerised and locked in a terrible dream. The loud, formidable pummel of the horse's hooves seemed to pound in rhythm to every terrified beat of his heart. But no … he would not allow that. His only purpose was to survive, and survive he will. He had not travelled all the way from Ireland to fail at the first stand. For only sitting atop those mighty steeds was a cringing son of a bitch, whose only protection upon their flesh was a meagre strip of metal.

_Heh __… let them come … Father, let them come … let them do all they can …._

At Stephen's feet lay a line of large logs that he and William's other men had sharpened into large spears. Well … it's better than nothing, thought Stephen … Jesus; would the English get their arses over here already? Everything appeared annoyingly dreamlike; the cavalry rapidly picked up their pace and their ringing war cries were heard ever louder and clearer, from within their helms.

William lifted his arm, staring pointedly ahead of him.

'Hold …' he yelled warningly, as his men made to bend down and pick up the wooden spears.

Faster and more fervent the cavalry charged ….

'Hold …' came William's voice again. Stephen fought all restraint to not open his mouth and scream with horror; this moment was the most frightening of his life! He did not fancy being impaled by an English lance. Oh the shame …

'Hold …'

_Oh for Christ's sake Father, strike William with __some _power _so he can shoot the blasted logs from his own arse … _

'HOLD!'

Faster … and faster, the horse's charged, their hooves thundering across the plain. Tufts of grass, the size of human heads flew up in the air from their gouging impact …

Stephen's eyes widened, old Roger grinned, yet suddenly he felt something brush past him; a little boy ran out desperately from the Scottish army. He brandished his little makeshift sword at the hurtling cavalry who were only metres ahead.

It was Thomas.


	13. Courage is Tested

**A/N: **Wooo it's the battle of Stirling. My first time in writing about lots of carnage. Nice. You might need a box of Kleenex for this installment.

Please review!

**Chapter 13**

"**Courage is Tested"**

'THOMAS!'

Roger's yell contained the first note of panic that Stephen had heard since they had reached the field.

His stomach lurched, causing a swoop of worry to rattle through him. On impulse, he dropped his weapons and his legs started forwards, to scoop Thomas out of the cavalry's destructive path. But he had barely moved an inch when he felt someone knock his arm; Sean's lanky frame ran past and towards his younger brother in the field.

The cavalry were only a few metres ahead of them!

'Sean!' screamed Roger, pulling his braids in horror, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?"

Sean paid his father's desperate cries no heed; he kept on running down the bank, his lungs ripping with each breath. His dark eyes moved slowly from the hurtling horses to his younger brother, who had dropped his small sword in shock. He stood, a tiny figure in the vast field, frozen with fear.

Sean quickened his pace; he reached Thomas, and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, pulling him close to his chest. He tore away from the cavalry, as fast as his lanky legs could carry him back to the Scottish army.

'Go … run ahead,' he whispered into his younger brother's ear, 'your legs are faster than mine.'

Without a second glance, Thomas slipped from his grasp and he pelted towards the Scottish army, screaming hysterically as he went.

Sean hazily watched his younger brother evaporate into the crowd of Scots, and old Roger squeeze the young lad tightly about his neck. He stopped his feet. He knew he would not make it in time. The cavalry were barely metres behind him. His eyes snatched momentarily onto his shrieking father, his thick, hastily tied braids bobbing visibly above the Scots' heads. He was pointing his finger at him, motioning him to run forth. No. If he ran he would trip in his haste and fall flat on his face. He would not have the shame.

Sean stood firmly on the ground and stretched out his arms, proudly imagining his last moments similar to that of his beloved Christ's upon the cross.

_Thud_

_Thud_

_Thud …_

'SEAN!'

_Goodbye, my dear father …_

The cavalry barraged swiftly over Sean. But he felt no pain as the bloody blow to his head from the horse's hooves caused him to die instantly. A few bemused knights cast the lone Irish lad a look from beneath their helms, but straight ahead, a more daunting sight awaited them. A whole line of lethal-looking, giant pikes had appeared. They were held firmly by the Scots, ready to impale them.

And the impact was catastrophic. Not one man heard Stephen's shuddering yell as he, and the rest of the Scots drove the pikes towards the cavalry. Everywhere he looked, knights were falling off their steeds back and horses were being skewered by the pikes like boars on spits.

The air was stifled with their confused, terrified neighs and the angry shouts of their riders. The dazed knights were easily slaughtered as soon as they hit the ground.

One brutish-looking knight fell towards Stephen's left, his helm skew-whiff from the force of the collision. They looked at each other for a second, when Stephen let out a loud war cry and ran furiously at his opponent. The knight failed to parry any of Stephen's vicious blows and soon, the Irishman slew the Knight by slicing his stomach.

The man's body sank to the floor and Stephen observed the gristly destruction around him; all of the cavalry had been slaughtered, though many Scots had also. Their bodies lay strewn along the front line, soaked in a bath of their own blood. His thoughts hazily turned to Thomas; had the young boy got away? And of course Sean … that brave, brave lad.

He felt a sharp blow to his shoulder and Stephen instinctively whirled, only to come face to face with Roger. He lowered his sword.

'Didn't see it all coming did they?' he growled at Stephen, who numbly shook his head. Roger spat on the floor, and wiped his face which was smeared with blood and blue Woad. 'What now? The bloody best part is to come: meeting the bastards upon the field.'

'Where is Thomas?' asked Stephen hastily as he wiped his blood-stained sword on his trousers. He noticed that the English generals were assembling their infantry and the Scots were gathering together to form a line. Roger blinked and licked his lips.

'He got away,' he said shortly, 'he got away.'

Stephen chose not to press situation, as if from another world, Roger's face horribly reminded him of Connor's when his friend had learned that his daughters would no longer breathe again.

'Come to the front line will you?' bellowed a voice.

Stephen looked up to see Hamish striding over. 'No point in gawking at the grass wi' a glaikit look on your face.'

Stephen forced Hamish's meaty fists off his shoulders and silently made his way to the front, with Roger following closely behind. He glanced furtively at the old man and saw him wipe his eyes as a guise to smear away dirt from his face.

_Now is not the time to mourn … for the sake of her, Father, and my son Logan, I shall now drive my blade through the Englishman's flesh. I will block out all thoughts and laugh to see the Englishman squirm, cringe and __**suffer**__ at my fee t… I will avenge, to fill up my aching thirst, I WILL avenge!._

_Jesus, how much it angers me Father!_

Stephen clutched his sword tight as he felt his hands begin to shake. Surely it must be unhealthy to even feel such venomous loathing?

He had no time to ponder the notion. Across the field, Cheltham and the general uneasily observed their annihilated cavalry. Not a single horse or knight had survived and little damage had been done to decline the number of Scots.

'Send the infantry,' said the general, failing to keep the worry out of his voice.

Cheltham raised his eyebrows in question, tightening the stirrups.

'My lord?' he asked in polite surprise. The general swallowed and pointed his finger at the assembled infantry.

'You lead them,' said the general, Cheltham blinked, 'do it now!'

Cheltham started his horse forth and rode in front of the infantry. His hands shook slightly on the reigns as he saw the sight of the screaming Scots, bellowing their fearless war cries into the air. They then began to mill down the side of the bank, running fiercely towards the English.

'Get ready,' he ordered the infantry curtly. A few soldiers looked up at Cheltham, clearly frightened by the sight of the Scots. His face wrinkled in disgust, and with a sharp kick of the stirrups, he reared his horse and galloped savagely ahead of him.

'CHARGE!'

By the resounding yell of men, he saw the English infantry swarm past him, splitting past his horse like streams of ants.

There was a meteoric collision, as both armies violently tore at each other like wolves. The sharp, vicious clangs of swords being swung and the frenzied cries of men, ruptured the air. Stephen had never felt anything like it. So much murder, pain and death surrounded him. But he was not perturbed.

It was as if he was being puppeteered by another being, as he unthinkingly hewed everything that wandered across his path. His hand was savage and crass and many unfortunate soldiers fell under it, even more so by the Scots, as they fought on … and on … against the English.

A young English soldier sprang out of the chaos, yelling his war cries but Stephen caught him deftly by the hair and swiftly slashed the soldier's testes, then throat. Stephen then threw him roughly to the ground before he could remember the lad's face.

_Father, save me the guilt in future years ..._

He turned, and heard another agonizing yell; an old, Scottish man he recognized to be named Campbell had been thrown to the ground by a soldier, whose sword had clumsily chopped the old man's hand.

_Slash!_ Out of nowhere, another soldier grabbed Stephen by the throat, but he flung him over his shoulder and slit his neck. A fountain of blood spurted into his face, as soon as the man's body slipped limply from his grasp. By the sheer, intense grotesque might of this battle, Stephen noticed a horse ridden by an English general gallop past him. It was riding towards someone. Cheltham's eyes narrowed with anger and he held his blade firmly in his hand, ready to strike the man only metres ahead of him. It was William Wallace.

'BASTARD!' came William's thundering cry.

Beset with rage, he sprinted towards Cheltham, kicking his horse and then knocking him off. Cheltham had barely reached for his sword before William furiously decapitated him. At the sight of this gruesome act upon an English general, Stephen swallowed back a feverish laugh which grew into an uncontrollable yell, out of fear or disgust, he knew not.

Surely, the Almighty understood his ways?

For right in this time-stopping moment, Stephen felt he had left his heart upon the shores of Ireland. Why though? Why was he thinking this when he was surrounded in the carnage he had chosen to join? Answers ... he thought feverishly, as his eyes snatched onto the bludgeoned skull of an Scotsmen ... Answers ...

Stephen's breathing quickened but he snapped his gaze onto William. The man was looking up towards the hill; a flood of horses charged down it, and trampled into the fray. Many English soldiers were brutally squashed from the impact and many struck by the Scottish rider's swords.

As if someone had turned the sound down upon the world, Stephen noticed that the screams were becoming less. He became more aware of his own person, and no longer fixed in a zombie-fied state of mindless, murderous joy and autonomous anger.

_Bodies ... bodies ... so many bodies._

_... blood ... blood ... so much blood ..._

His foot stepped on something wet and unpleasantly squishy. When looking down, he realised he had trodden on a mutilated leg and beside it, a heart. His eyes widened and he staggered away in repulsion. A heart for Christ's sake! Someone had actually gone to the damn effort in gouging out someone's heart.

From afar he thought he heard the distant yell of the general, over the battle.

'Retreat!'

_Blessed be ... they're going Father ... back to England with their tales between their legs..._

"Retreat all of you I say!"

The scattered archers followed the general as he rode off, away from the Scottish army. It was over. The battle was over. Numbly, Stephen wove his path through the lying bodies to William, who was smiling up at one of the mounted Scottish nobles.

'Alright, there Mornay?' said William, grinning slightly.

Mornay smiled weakly back, shaking his head at the fact they had won so capriciously.

Stephen felt the same.

Daunting as much as the English army had looked, adorned with their many fancy lances, horses and archers; the Scots had prevailed. And he had survived. Smattered in blood and dirt, tunic torn and skin slithered with cuts, he had still survived.

His mind did not seem able to clench onto that acknowledgement just yet, for all of the Scots around him had looked skyward, as William slowly walked up the bank.

The man stood stationary, surveying the remaining survivors of his army at his feet. A clear, legendary leader he looked, silhouetted against the dramatic backdrop scenery of the ancient hills, the billowing grey clouds … like the Kings of old …

_There's an eye opener no doubt, Father… and who'd of believed it … he lead us to victory._

- - - - - - - - - -

The sun beat down upon Meghan's neck, as she strolled through a small maze of well-trimmed bushes. She had to admit, the gardens of London Castle were a splendid place. Even though it was not yet summer and the place not ablaze with the rainbow of flowers, the countless evergreen bushes and trees offered the same luxurious splendour.

There was some peace held within this place, her only company the leaves which gently waved in the morning breeze.

Two whole weeks it had been before she learned that the English army had ridden to battle with the Scots, and yet strangely, the thought did not stab at her, even more so by the fact there had been no news of victory or loss. Nevertheless, with a smile, Meghan blessed this aspiration and her new careless attitude.

She paused and laughed sadly.

Her tears were spent, yet if there were anymore it would be out of self-pity. It was difficult to know that Stephen still lived, and that each day might be his last, but Meghan had never stopped hoping since she discovered he was alive. And despite the pain of Aldrich's murder, the hope she held for her Stephen fighter shone like a dim beacon in her heart … blocking out the darkness.

With a short sigh, she perched herself on the edge of a bench and gazed wonderingly at a tall beech tree. A red robin sat on a branch, and eyed her curiously. It flapped its wings, fluttering to a higher branch, and then took off into the pale sky.

_Oh Stephen,_ she mused, staring at the now bare, wooden branches, _For all that is good, I will find you_.


	14. News is Delivered

Days grew into weeks and weeks into months, and still no news of victory or defeat. Latham had sailed to France with King Edward, and a handful of Longshank's other closest advisors and councillors. They had been gone for six months and it was six whole months later that Meghan was told the news. She chose to while away the days gardening; a pursuit the courtiers found most amusing. Why was she not stitching embroidery like good, well-behaved noblewomen? But Meghan didn't care. Sitting in a single room and stitching embroidery for hours upon end, was a form of torture.

Even back in Ireland, she was no seamstress. Anice had made most of her dresses. Meghan was a woman of the earth, and took pride in growing crops and making the dinner. Thus, Meghan returned to her carefully aligned bulbs one day, the morning sunshine warming the planes of her sweaty face. Her red hair was hastily thrown back into a bun.

She heard a voice.

"Goodness, you're still here? And I thought Harold the gardener had resigned with shame, what with you watering the plants," it said.

A pair of leather boots appeared in front of Meghan. Shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun, she looked up to see a young guard grinning toothily down at her.

"My lady?" he said, offering her his hand. Meghan took it wordlessly, brushing the dirt off her simple dress, to appear presentable. Bizarrely, she had gotten so used to be called 'lady', she rarely questioned it.

'Yes?' she said, running a critical eye over the youth. He looked familiar. The sandy hair, the cheeky grin stirred something in her memory … of course; he'd been present at Longshanks' council, before the King had sailed across to France. But … what was he doing here? Should he not be with his King?

"I have news for you," he answered, cutting Meghan from her thoughts. "About Stirling."

Meghan raised her eyebrows. "You do?"

"Yes, you asked a few months back that you wished to be informed of its outcome."

"Oh, yes of course … well?" She waited for the youth to speak, sick with nerves.

"Um … well … the whole English army were destroyed, the Scots won," the youth answered in a faint voice.

Thank God! Meghan fought hard not to punch the air, maybe he was spared! Perhaps it was a good omen … it had to be!

Knowing she was meant to be disheartened by the news, she arranged her face to an expression of sadness.

"That's … awful news," said Meghan, forcing out an angry sigh, "bloody William Wallace.'" She placed a hand on her hip and threw aside her gardening tool in feigned annoyance. It clattered pathetically to the floor, squashing her bulbs. The young guard watched this, and all of a sudden, burst out laughing.

Meghan jumped.

"Now, if that is how women release their temper then I'm worried," he said, grinning widely.

"Aye, I seem to have squashed my bulbs," she smirked, glancing at her drooped plants in mock grief. The young guard laughed vigorously, early morning sunshine illuminating his sandy hair.

'What is your name? I remember seeing you at the council,' said Meghan.

'I, your fine ladyship am the great-great-grandson of Richard the Lion Heart. And for this, I sleep in a chamber encrusted with gold at night, though King Edward does not know, with angels ornamented outside of it. '

Meghan gave another laugh, knowing that this fool was mocking the pretensions of formal greetings by the rich, who insisted on recherché detail, not because of their qualities but because of its snob value.

'What's your real name, hmm?'

The young guard dipped a small bow. Meghan quirked an eyebrow in slight bewilderment.

'Spencer Griffin is my name; though short in height I am tall in mind. I am dreadful at singing but my literature is the best to find. Call me boastful, I simply care not, for proud that I am, among the staid, royal lot.'

"Enough blabbering, you idiot," laughed Meghan, swiping back a hair from her eyes, "you're really annoying."

"Indeed I am," bowed Spencer, "I have yet to tell you the other news."

'And what may that be?'

'Your husband, General Latham awaits you in the courtyard,' he said in a monontonous voice. Meghan's heart began to race. She fixed a smile to her face, thanked the youth and left the gardens. It was a shame to leave her activity in the garden, Meghan thought gloomily as she exited through a magnificent archway. She'd gotten used to the incessant twittering of the birds, welcomed the hands of the morning sun as it beat down on her face, the incoherent chattering of the nobles as they drifted past, the genial laughter of Harold the gardener as he sat languidly on his - alright maybe she had gotten a little too mad with the gardening.

The temperature of the air fell dramatically as she entered the castle. Its shadowy, stone coldness made the hairs on her arms prick up. Servants and guards alike drifted past, wraithlike, avoiding the sun that filtered through the high-raised windows.

Meghan stopped and scanned the large entrance hall, waiting to see Latham's round head come bobbing into view.

"There she is …"

Two large gorilla-sized arms materialised, forcing her into a stiff embrace.

"My dear wife," he said with a fixed grin, whilst casting the courtiers a wary glance. He waited till they had drifted through the oaken doors, before speaking.

His eyes flew back to Meghan. "Why in God's name, are you wearing that?" Latham hissed angrily into her ear. Meghan pushed him away, brushing off a lump of dirt which had attached itself stubbornly to her waist. "Answer me! What have you been doing all this time whilst I've been away?" his round face began to redden. 'I – I … in fact I would rather not know.'

Meghan dropped her gaze. "Nice to see you too," she mumbled glumly, "I've been gardening."

Latham looked as if Meghan had walloped his face with a saucepan. He blinked.

"Gardening …" he repeated weakly, ploughing a meaty hand distractedly through his hair, "God's bones …" he sighed under his breath.

'How was France?' Meghan prompted.

"I suppose you're happy woman eh?" he said, eyeing her beadily, "have you heard about the bedamned Scottish victory at Stirling and –"

"There's an 'and'?" cut in Meghan smugly; Latham shot her a nasty look.

"Yes," he said curtly, "there is an 'and'. The Scottish rebels have sacked the city York in northern England. It was done savagely and many died,' he added dispassionately, "many Scots that is, as well as English."

Meghan's smile faded. "Many dead?" she repeated. Latham nodded, looking unconcerned. "Huh! I don't care who wins this fight, Latham but I know he isn't dead – even though a battle has been won and York successfully taken. I'm still waiting to be reunited with my husband … which you promised."

Latham looked around alarm as she said this, flapping his hands a to lower her voice. "Shhh!,' he murmured, brown eyes wide, "keep your voice down!"

Meghan observed him coldly.

"Time's ticking. I will leave this castle-dungeon, if the confinement becomes too much!"

Latham's red face turned an ugly puce.

'You'll do no such thing!'

Meghan folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. 'Won't I? I won't beg on my hands and knees, Latham," she peered at him closely. The man truly was evil. "I will leave you to go about your planned duties for today. See you at dinner."

She forced a stiff bow, brushing some excess dirt off her dress and stalked over to a flight of stone steps. Her head felt oddly clear. Perhaps she was too exhausted to lash out anymore … Latham gloried in her despair. The man was a bastard. A true, and utter bastard … if only Stephen was here. Meghan allowed herself a grin, pausing to lean against the stone wall of the staircase. So many events had occurred: the battle of Stirling, the sacking of York. Had her Stephen been present and fought alongside William Wallace? The Scottish rebel felt like a guardian angel, protecting Stephen from the English war machine and living a dream of long-awaited freedom.

"Protect him, Lord," she murmured, staring through a small window. "Protect the fool."

And I shall see you again, sooner, rather than later.


	15. Of Dead Sons and Fried Fish

**A/N: **Sorry for how drably this chapter is, but I just want to write about Stephen's emotions in this, and the Scot's as a whole. Hope you enjoy.Please review!

**Chapter Fifteen**

**Of Dead Sons and Fried Fish**

**  
**The big, juicy fish was flumped onto the cuirass atop the fire. Immediately, it began to sizzle in its own juices, emanating a rich, intensified aroma.

The smell made Stephen drool.

_Jesus;_ _this certainly beat bloody conies, hunted in the wild._

He had not smelt anything so fine; his slavering mouth was begging to bite the fish's succulent body.

He snorted at the thought and then chuckled at his being using armour for a makeshift frying pan. Well, at least the English had some use.

The Scots had reached the jackpot, now that they had sacked York. Its people fled, its nobles dead and now under the control of William Wallace. Well, he and the Scots had wasted no time in raiding the abandoned castle, and to their delight, came across storerooms stuffed with food. And so, many like him were tucking into fine, full meals.

_Fit for the rich, eh Father but my belly is as prosperous as the next poor beggar._

He reached for a rusted poker and flipped the fish over. As he did so, he growled softly. Sacking York had not been a walk in the park, that was for sure. Among the other Scots, as he held that bloody tree trunk, he had gained a nasty blow from a rock to the head. When he looked up furiously, he saw a grinning Englishman, cowering beneath the ruts of the fortress. The man even had the audacity to wave!

Stephen growled at the memory and glared at the Salmon.

_Bloody coward…I hope he got what he deserved … _

He certainly didn't. The remarkable bruise on his head was going to grate him for days. He much preferred the cuts he had sustained, since joining Wallace. At least those wounds scabbed over. But no … bruises had to remain ugly, garishly coloured and very, very sore.

The deserted stable in which he sat still bore signs of a struggle during the raid. Walls were dented, wooden beams splintered and hay was splayed everywhere.

The place still smelt of horse shit from the piles in the corners and the only sound that could be heard was the buzzing of the flies that smothered the faeces. Still, he preferred that than the furious and agonizing yells of men which he had endured over the previous three nights. Oh, how his spirit felt weary at this moment. He stared at the Salmon, half-wishing it would rise up and speak words of wisdom to him.

'Stephen?'

An enquiring voice was heard. Stephen jumped out of his reverie, bewilderingly glancing at the Salmon but then at the small shadow being cast from the door. It was Thomas.

'Hello there, Thomas,' replied Stephen, stifling a huge yawn, 'come sit down.'

The young lad trotted over and sat before the cooking Salmon, eyeing it hungrily.

'Fucking hell, that looks tasty!' he exclaimed, sitting up so he could examine it closer.

'Language,' chastised Stephen, half-laughing as he stretched, 'and I'll share some with you, as soon as it's done. Oi mind the pan!'

He leapt forth as Thomas stretched a finger to prod the Salmon. Stephen grabbed his wrists and shoved the boy roughly to the floor.

'Don't touch it, you'll have your finger cut off,' he said. Thomas' jaw dropped, his wide, innocent blue eyes as round as saucers. Stephen chuckled.

'No my mistake, I meant your whole arm,' Stephen laughed, humouring himself, 'we don't need you any more damaged from back at Stirling,' Thomas shuffled his feet edgily, bowing his head in shame, 'what _were_ you thinking?'

'I've heard this rotten sermon a hundred times! I was only trying to help." The young boy scowled and flung a stone at the wall in his annoyance. Stephen rolled his eyes, 'and …' Thomas looked up, 'you call _that_ a pan?'

He pointed to the tarnished cuirass on top of Stephen's roughly piled fire and his body quivered with giggles.

'Eh, I don't see you being creative,' remarked Stephen, pretending to look offended, 'you can't even go somewhere without seeing anything ten feet in front of you.' Thomas gave a noise of disbelief and threw a rock at him. Stephen ducked, though he need not; the lad's aim was hopeless.

'Yeah, yeah,' sighed Thomas sarcastically, lying on the ground, 'whatever you say.'

'Where's your father?' asked Stephen, registering Thomas' lonesome company. The boy's leg twitched and although Stephen could not see Thomas's face, he saw the lad's body stiffen with distress. After a tense moment, Thomas looked up at Stephen.

'He's coming I think," he said, "but Pa's not said a word since Sean died.'

Stephen stared intently back at Thomas, ignoring that the Salmon was beginning to smell of charcoal. It tore him apart slightly as a silent tear trickled down the boy's cheek.

'He's still silent then,' alleged Stephen, still gazing at Thomas. The lad sprang up and flumped his body haughtily opposite Stephen. He wrapped his arms securely around his knees, bringing them close to his chest whilst glowering into the fire.

'Aye … he's silent,' snapped Thomas, 'like a fucking ghost.'

He buried his head in his knees to stem the tirade of tears streaming down his cheeks.

Stephen watched sadly, as the boy's body began to rack with harshly suppressed sobs. He was too young to understand that it was not a crime to cry but at his age, Thomas did not want to feel weak. Stephen rose half-heartedly from his stool to comfort him, but as he expected, Thomas moved away.

'No …' he said thickly. He raised his tear-stained face and worked a watery smile. 'I'll be alright."

He stared at the Salmon which had now shrunk twice its size. Stephen followed his gaze and forced a weak chuckle.

'Well would you look at that …' he said, picking up the fish from the pan and holding it between his fingers. It hung there pitifully; its eyes staring accusingly at Stephen at how bad a cook he was.

'English gourmet' laughed Stephen, slapping the thing back into the cuirass. It landed with a sorry _splat_ onto the metal's searing surface where it hissed angrily, engulfing it back into a wave of heat.

'Would you like some?'

Thomas grimaced. '_No_!'

'You're missing out on a treat,' smiled Stephen, flipping it over. He felt strangely amused with toying with its pathetic, flaccid state with the poker.

Suddenly they heard trudging. Roger loomed into view and staggered into the stable, flumping himself weakly beside a wall. He recoiled as he narrowly missed sitting on one of the piles of steaming horse excretion.

'Mind the shit,' said Stephen airily, glancing sideways at Roger. The old man looked seriously woebegone. His beard had grown, and seemed to obscure his face in a jungle of hair. Some of the revolting, thick braids from his head, had disappeared and the ones which remained, seemed to droop as miserably as his bearing.

Old Roger gazed around him, as if Stephen and Thomas were invisible.

'You not going to talk?' asked Stephen sharply. Old Roger merely waved away his question.

'Thought you wouldn't," he growled, ignoring Thomas' frown at his brusqueness. "You finally crawled from the shadows, back to the land of the living?'

This statement seemed wake Roger up. He turned his head and stared at Stephen with bleary eyes, but he still remained silent.

"Did you fetch your son's body from the battlefield?' continued Stephen quietly, his hand poised on the poker. Roger ignored him and began to hum tunelessly under his breath. Stephen sniffed in disgust; without saying a single word he managed to radiate disapproval . . . the air seemed to grow heavy with it, and the most garrulous talker would wilt and fall silent. When still Old Roger did not speak, he forced his attention to the burnt Salmon, deliberately occupying himself from not hitting the old man.

He didn't have a single bone of bravery in his body! And this was coming from him, the man who had cleaned his dead boy's wounds, then buried him in a shallow grave.

And every night, in the darkest hours he would see the dark memories of his boy's butchered body … blood everywhere … deep, uneven gashes streaked along flesh, as if Logan had been mauled by a rabid wolf, not a man. Oh, he could go on for hours about the absolute horrors he had endured. But no, he would not let it haunt, prick, prod and enslave him like it had done for four years.

He was a fighter … a man of Eire …

Valiantly, Stephen focused his mind on cutting the Salmon with a dagger, with more vigour than was necessary.

'It's harder than you think, Stephen …' slurred a voice from the influence of alcohol. Stephen clenched the knife hard in his hand.

'Father you're speaking!' exclaimed Thomas delightedly, springing up to embrace his father but Roger waved him away.

The young lad stumbled back to where he sat, looking hurt.

'More hard?' repeated Stephen, trying to stop his hands from shaking. "how hard do you think _I _can think it can be?' he slammed the knife angrily to the floor and glared over at Roger. "Do you think I've been living under a fucking rock all my life?'

Roger's face twitched.

"So now you leave your son to rot on that field and to the mercy of crows and whatnot? Do you call yourself even a _man_, let alone his father?'

Stephen didn't mean for his voice to rise so rapidly. He noticed that Thomas was observing him as if he had sprouted an extra head.

Roger gave a growl of fury and sprang up from where he sat, however he tripped over in his drunken state, and sank back down. Rubbing his back, he glowered over at Stephen.

"Ee, my fucking bones," he grumbled, scratching his spine with a bony hand. His dark eyes then snapped onto Stephen's. 'I am a man,' he retorted, 'yet I distinctly remember you telling me ...' he paused and licked his mouth, as if relishing the thought, "that ...you never retrieved back your wife's body from when your village was raided, now _that _is cowardly."

_How dare the man say it, Father … how dare he … the man who has been rip-roaring drunk for three days … _

Something in Stephen snapped. Blood began to pound and in his head. He grabbed the skinning dagger and aimed it at Roger; it plunged to a quivering standstill in a beam above the man's head. As he observed this, stabbing, wily voices spoke in the corners of his mind … _Had you not turned to the bottle when your family died, Stephen? When you knew all was lost? _Shut up, shut up! _Any mention of M-Meghan or Logan is taboo, Father! It makes me so angry! _

Then maybe memories are still fresh, hissed the voices …

_No … Father … _

Stephen plunged back to the present.

"Don't _ever _say that,' he hissed, eyes bulging slightly, as he forced all memories beneath their shroud.

Ignoring Thomas' panicked squeals, he strode over to Roger, in half a mind to give him a good kick him in the shins. But the old man merely gazed up at him.

"You going to do something?" he said.

Stephen struggled himself for a moment, but in the end, said nothing. Casting Roger a dark look, he moved over to the fire, and began to chop the rest of the Salmon.

'Men and their pride,' murmured Roger, coiling a grey hair in his fingers. "Many that live, run from their fears and many that die have faced them. That's what Sean told me once,' a flurry of coughs brewed in his chest which caused him to double over. "It sounded like a load of shite at the time, but now I understand. But even so, Sean was a burden.'

Stephen's bubble of anger ebbed away as he watched Roger closely, the old man was completely at sea with his thoughts.

'Why was he a burden?' he remarked heatedly, 'he was your son."

Roger sighed. 'Aye, he was my son. He was clever, good and scholarly … yet a burden."

'Why?'

Roger fixed Stephen a beady stare. 'He was a sodomite." Stephen felt his stomach quiver uneasily. "But still I ... I loved him, I suppose. I did …" he slammed his hand to the floor, beckoning Thomas to come over to him. "Ah, fuck this I can't be bothered with speaking all pansy emotional drivel. The boy's dead … so God be with him.'

Stephen said nothing but watched as Roger's wizened hand tenderly toyed with his youngest son's hair.

Outside, the evening sun was waning and it's golden rays beamed through the upper rafters of the stable, dappling a festivity of colours against the walls and ground.

Yet not even Stephen felt comforted by this small, precious sight that the sky was beaming.

He felt a small twinge of emptiness, as Thomas' fell asleep in his guardian's loving embrace. Stephen knew he shouldn't feel jealous but in his heart of hearts he truly did. Observing Thomas was almost staring at a stark mirror image of himself.

Stripped bare to the core, he was but a little boy, starved of emotion and attention. And being an only man was not always such a good thing.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

'It's a wonderful evening.'

Meghan swirled from her bedroom window and smiled at the maid who was setting out tea and cakes. Meghan vaguely knew she was called Bathilda, a rather striking name of Saxon origin. The long streaming blonde hair, hastily tied back from her heart shaped face was also another dead give away.

Bathilda smiled faintly. 'Yes, it is, shame the sky is not red. For red sky at night, shepherd's delight. Have you heard of that saying my lady?'

'Yes I have,' said Meghan delightedly, she had heard those very words from her mother many years ago. But her mother's soft mumblings were now but a strained whisper. Still ... the memory had brought a reminiscent smile to her face.

'I do believe it to be true,' said Bathilda thoughtfully, pausing in laying out a silk cloth, 'one day before I was to do the washing, I looked to the sky and thought of those very words. In the next hour the sky hath turned red! And the next day it was as bright as any day I could remember. It was lovely. Truly lovely, shame that word can't be said for my King -'

She clamped a hand to her mouth, ogling at Meghan.

'Forgive me,' she breathed, 'please do not disparage me for saying that.'

Meghan raised her red eyebrows. 'Of course not, God only knows I feel the same.'

'You do?' replied Bathilda, looking astonished.

'Aye,' said Meghan dipping onto the rim of the bed, fisting her eyes with fatigue, 'though don't start mouthing it around. You love to talk it seems.'

Bathilda gave a weak laugh and her cheeks flushed slightly.

'No,' she replied breathlessly, fanning herself. 'I won't. Well, I hope this all you need, don't hesitate to call if you need anything ... good night my lady.'

' 'Night Bathilda,' droned Meghan, sinking back into the covers. She shut her eyes and immediately, sleep consumed her. By night she was dreaming of climbing a hill of dead Englishmen, to reach that man atop of it.

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	16. A Folly Idea?

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **

_Ugh. Hideous amounts of coursework needing to be completed before Easter holidays which start on Wednesday. Nevertheless, I'm glad I've completed this chapter ) yes … this is where s__pice can be added into the plot, good idea is it? Please review and I shall proceed to chapter seventeen – where things are not what they seem. Bless – E.S_

_-- as an extra note, Meghan's attitude to homosexuality is what was reckoned back then – 1300's Britain Enough said ; )_

**Chapter Sixteen**

"**A Folly Idea?"**

The atmosphere in the dining hall was claustrophobic. Between Latham and an old, thin-faced lawyer, Meghan sat stiffly on the rim of her seat, before a plate of meagrely sliced chicken and bread. It was hard to eat and raise a fork, lest she be stabbed in the eyeball from one of Latham's beefy elbows. The man was happily immersing himself in eating his much larger portion of chicken, freshly off the bone (with sound effects that would want to make a pig turn off its swill).

The old lawyer was no exception. Despite his eating habits being the opposite, he was hunched over his plate and carefully slicing his chicken into small, identical sections as if he was operating on a wound. And when he swallowed, his Adams apple would rise to the surface like a mutated ankle, as his throat muscles constricted, forcing the food down .This rather gruesome process was refined with a pursed sip of ale. Well these manners were certainly new to expect in the King's dining hall!

The long dining table was garlanded with lord, ladies, lawyers and ladies in waiting, dressed in their rich attire. And sticking out like a livid sore thumb was the King, sitting next to a weedy-looking young man. Megan presumed this could only be Longshank's son, the second Edward. Both men had the same shifty eyes; Longshank's were steely focused on Edward however the young prince's were scanning the table anxiously, as if he was searching for somebody …perhaps a _man…_ Meghan had heard the rumours and if truth be told, it did not surprise her. The man was … well … this whisper of a human appeared almost androgynous. the thought of his being with another man made Meghan feel quite unsettled.

Nevertheless, she was not concerned about these aristocratic affairs. Yet, as soon as the young prince's eyes coolly regarded her as he looked around the hall, it was hard to forget his presence. Meghan quickly studied her untouched chicken; the prince certainly had a way of making others feel lowlier than him … _probably a trait he's got off his father … _and too right, she was as royal as the muck in the stables. Yet _he _didn't know, the young prince … how _innocent _he looked next to his scrutinizing father. Edward looked as if he was about to faint as his father's steely orbs burned into him.

He was the very picture of a lost child. What with his pristine golden hair haloing his head, making him appear like an elongated cherub and uncertain smile faltering on his face. This was England's future … even to Meghan's own standards she felt like snorting into her dinner at the thought. The lad did not have a clue, especially about the real world, save the fancy clothes on his back. With that nervous, breathless look on his face, it said it all. Grudgingly, she felt herself agreeing with Longshanks … no wonder he despised his son.

'Eat,' mumbled a voice in her ear. Meghan jumped, nearly knocking her drink over the wizened lawyer. Latham's narrowed eyes loomed down at her.

'Eat something,' he repeated, reaching out to spear her chicken with his own fork. Meghan pushed his arm firmly away.

'Off of my food,' she said reproachfully, 'I will eat it …'

'Mind that accent of yours …' growled Latham under his breath, 'eat your chicken, you're embarrassing me … Two hours you've just sat there, only supping your soup. Is that how my wife behaves?'

'No,' Meghan whispered coldly, 'I'm not your wife, remember?'

Latham nearly choked on his goblet and his eyes bulged with warning.

'Shut up will you?'

Meghan sighed and sank back into her chair. Her eyes snapped onto Longshanks who was duelling with a stubborn vegetable.

'How long has it been now?' she said, 'Four months since we learned about York and nothing has happened. What is to happen? What am I to do?'

Latham shrugged, leaning back as his empty plate was taken by a maid. They flashed Meghan's untouched plate a reproachful look as they collected it, bumping deliberately into her head as they swept past.

'Cease whining like an ungrateful child,' hissed Latham leaning forwards so no-one could hear them. Meghan could smell the whiff of ale strongly in his breath. 'You must learn to be patient, I have been enquiring about opportunities that might lead us to Wallace but nothing so far of the sort, save the next time the King decides to go to war,' Meghan opened her mouth to speak, '- but until that time you are here.'

Meghan shut her mouth and shrank away, glaring at Latham. Their discussion shrouded by the curtain of Meghan's auburn hair draping in front of them. 'I have been patient,' she hissed back through gritted teeth, 'so patient but you have not been around to see it. I don't think you're making an effort enough to find out how to let me go.'

Latham cackled softly. 'I would not say no more,' he said to her, his eyes flashing, 'don't you remember the reason as to why you are in London? A certain _killing …_of a defenceless man … _'_

The blood drained from Meghan's face and a leap of guilt and fear prickled inside her. 'Don't speak of that,' she remarked quietly, though she was in half the mind to pour her goblet over Latham's head for his cruel daring, 'you covered for me and nevertheless my actions had not been intentional – '

'– save me the sob story,' Latham cut in sharply. They both leant back as elaborate platters of succulent food were placed carefully on the table, by an army of maids and servants.

'Bon appetite!' one ruddy faced servant said, bowing himself out of the room. Longshanks laughed nastily, and he glanced at a beautiful woman sitting two sets away. Her pale face was set in stone and she was staring mournfully at the table, not even flickering at the King's disparagement. This had to be Isabelle, the wife of Prince Edward.

Meghan chose not speak. It was very hard to, for a shower of eager hands were reaching past her to collect food and dump it on their plates. She watched Latham stack his copiously with pork and vegetables, feeling slightly sick.

'Load your plate,' he muttered.

'Stop speaking to me like I'm a child,' said Meghan quietly. Unthinkingly she reached for a section of pork … so much meat. She did not feel in the mood for eating. Not now that Latham had brought up the fragile subject of Aldrich's death. She had refused to contemplate on what was occurring in that other universe … back in Ireland. Maybe they had had Aldrich's funeral and Alden, who must be nearing six, had watched his own father being buried into the ground.

And what had they told him of his mother? Meghan dreaded to think. She felt cold at the thought of what lies and stories the maidservants might have concocted into that little boy's head. Indeed she had sinned, the blade had been driven straight through a deluded and defenceless man … and what was this? Remorse? Or just self pity and guilt? Shame even … but either way, she would remain a murderer.

_Please don't hate me Lord … _

- - - - - - - - -

'You're wife certainly entertained us this evening. How did she know all those remarkable stories? It is a wonder.'

Longshanks smiled blandly at Meghan, as she and Latham reached the door. It was the end of the evening meal and Meghan had become considerably tipsy. Though it had not been reckless, she had counted various stories of what she had been told many years ago to the interest other diners. Most had seemed amused, even captivated and Meghan had to admit: she had loved the attention fired her way. Yet now as her brain became as sober as sand, her brief spell of elation evaporated at the very sound of Longshank's voice.

'Thank you sire,' she replied, curtseying. She saw Latham give her an appreciative nod. Swine.

'Good night your highness,' nodded Latham politely. He clamped his hand onto Meghan's, forcing her to turn with him and leave the dining hall. It was well up in the dark corridors before he spoke to her.

'Now …' he growled, 'my little sausage, you nearly risked everything tonight because of your own desires. Most reckless. Not good. No more mentioning about the deal or else, I am getting sick to the back teeth. Understood?'

Dumbly, Meghan nodded her head. Latham let go of her hand and stalked off down the corridors at a careful pace before he was swallowed up by the darkness. She watched the spot where he had dissolved and felt disgusted as she realized her eyes were burning.

'No, don't cry,' she moaned to herself, slumping against the wall, 'don't cry. I am not helpless …'

_Clank clank clank._ The sound of quick footsteps echoed resoundingly off the walls and Meghan hastily wiped her eyes, her cheeks burning with the humility of being threatened. The footsteps were just around the corner, heading her way. Before she could move, gleam of metal armour became illuminated by the orangey light of the brackets. It was Spencer.

Meghan gasped but threw a frown at his direction.

'What are you doing?'

'About to ask you the same question,' said Spencer, coming forth.

'What?' snapped Meghan, becoming increasingly annoyed at his candid interrogation 'keep out of things which don't concern you.'

Spencer shrugged. 'I would find that difficult, I've heard enough. Yet I still feel worried about you.'

Meghan rolled her eyes and leaned one hand against the wall, observing him scornfully. '_You _don't have to feel worried about me?"

'Yes I do. You've been crying, have you not?'

'No I haven't!' exclaimed Meghan, laughing loudly in disbelief but she knew she was not fooling anyone. Spencer raised an eyebrow.

'What is this I hear about your _"own desires"… _' he said silkily, relishing in the shocked look on Meghan's face.

'You little swine, you've been eavesdropping!'

'Oh yes,' grinned Spencer, 'and spying. A hushed voice at the King's dining table is most suspicious. We are vaguely friends yet noblewomen do not garden – '

'– For my own pleasure– '

Spencer ignored her and continued.

' - _nor_ associate with the guards, especially on friendly terms. You are uneasy in the presence of others of an upper class and you seem to despise it… I am not correct - you are not Latham's - '

'SHHHHH!' Meghan scurried to Spencer and put her hand over his mouth. She felt him laugh smugly into her palm. She withdrew, her eyes searching his face for any sign of ridicule. Why the little … yet Could she trust him? Had he told anyone? No … he wouldn't …

'Come with me,' she muttered. 'And stay quiet, help me God.'

Gladly, Spencer took her hand and allowed himself to be lead. Meghan knew where she was going … her own quarters. There she might get some privacy at least; save if someone placed a goblet on the door to eavesdrop. They entered the room, the fire welcomed them with the waves of dancing flames and Bathilda had already laid out another tray of tea.

Spencer wandered in and surveyed the cosy room admiringly, whilst setting himself snugly on a stuffed, burgundy armchair beside the fire. He watched patiently as Meghan restlessly paced the room, wringing her hands and murmuring unremittingly under her breath.

'A nice room you have here. A room for one?' he pressed her.

Meghan abruptly stalled and gawked over at Spencer. His sandy head shining like a beacon next to the firelight. He waited for her to speak.

'There's no use denying it,' Meghan said dolefully, 'you're an annoyingly sharp person.'

'Shrewd is my middle name, yet I play at no cost or game. Straight to the point is what I intend, finding an answer in the end,' said Spencer, smiling aloofly at his own rhyme.

'Shut up with the riddles, you're no Wiseman,' answered Meghan, waving a hand distractedly through the air, 'I will go to the point,' she paused and gazed into the fire, mulling over her thoughts, 'I will answer your question, and you must not interrupt me' she released a protracted, fretful sigh and sank back into the chair, 'the answer to your question is that I am _not _the wife of Latham… '

And so for the past hour, Meghan recounted the long, infamous story to Spencer, perhaps the only soul in a long line of many a dark years to actually sit down and listen. It was not as hard as Meghan had deliberated; yes it was tearful as the memories came back to light but inside she felt as if a great block had been shifted off her chest.

Suppression had not always been a wise move, and the more it built up, the greater the block had become. Spencer had been a good listener, he had not patted her on the back at fragile moments nor continuously murmured vague, patronizing replies such as: 'oh dear,', 'goodness me.' By the end of the explanation, Meghan was on the edge of her seat and gazing into the fire with a sad wistful smile plastered to her face.

'And so now I feel incredibly restless that I must stay here, trapped and confined to wait for the day for my departure to be "rational," Latham's services to Longshanks have been extended now that Wallace has come out in the open. I don't know what to do!'

She narrowed her eyes at a large log in the fire which was being engulfed by flames.

Spencer gave a weak smile.

'Of course you don't' said Spencer.'So you're Irish. Brilliant, I love your folk, bizarre accent yet very hearty and certainly love their drink. I have known them but not of the Scot's' he added musingly. 'I am only young but what General Latham has concocted on your part is very selfish. He has kept you with him like a prisoner. Why don't he just let you go and look for your husband yourself?'

'Your guess is as good as mine' said Meghan soberly. 'And - I don't know if Stephen is alive or not after the battle. But I can never stop hoping now after all these years.' She bowed her head and Spencer observed her with concern.

'Not many souls have chosen to walk in the garden of your yearning and sorrows. The King himself is fuelled on his hatred and greed, disregarding the ways of Aquinas and throwing it to the dogs. Nothing is ever a just war anymore, both on the battle and between peers. No wonder Scotland is in chaos.'

'Your'e a clever lad' she said. 'Nobody I've met can speak like you.' They shared a small smile.

'I'm a fool' said Spencer heavily.

'We're both fools' said Meghan meaningfully. 'A fool for love. If only I could just speak to Stephen - a rumour that would just reach his ears about me - ' she broke off as Spencer put up a hand, his face shining with inspiration.

'Then write him a letter,' he said, 'and explain about everything which has happened.'

Meghan deflated, 'I can't read ... or write.'

'No matter, I could write it and you tell me what to put.'

'I don't know. It would seem suspicious that is your hand and not mine,' she said slowly.

'He would know it was your voice, being spoken in the letter,' said Spencer.

'Well who would deliver it? It's a folly idea – '

'Oh my goodness! That's it!' cried Spencer leaping up from the chair as a thought struck him. Meghan stared at him, taken aback.

'What? How's the incapability to deliver the letter going to solve –' grumbled Meghan but Spencer cut across her. He paced the room, breathless with glee at the thought.

It all fitted so perfectly … it would be just like the tales of old concerning kismet of two lover's feat…

'General Latham, the bastard has not told you this but in a few weeks the princess Isabelle is being sent to Scotland, York to talk with William Wallace and I am to go with her and a handful of other guards. No wonder she looked so glum. If I was to ask for a Stephen McKenna, in some way … I would have to endeavour it but he would receive the letter.'

'Oh ... but there are thousands of Scots with him - '

'Clans are very well connected' said Spencer. 'I expect very few Irish are among the Scots at the moment.'

Meghan sober face changed into a wide smile.

'Genuis boy!' she said, standing up. 'You would send this letter for me?'

'Yes,' said Spencer. 'But it will be risky.'

She flung her arms around him and murmured incoherent "thankyou's" into his shoulder. Spencer felt very relieved when she finally let go.

'Now' he said. 'We need to write this letter somewhere ... private. Away from prying eyes.'

'The stables' answered Meghan straightaway, wiping her eyes. 'Left side on the courtyard.' Spencer's face was crumpled in thought. 'We could ... ' he said, stroking his chin. 'Very well.'

'Meet me at twelve tomorow' said Meghan carefully. 'And make sure you go unnoticed. I will be hidden.'

He gave a firm nod assent. 'Very well. I will be there.'


	17. Written Letters and Hushed Whispers

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_Chapter rewritten. Lazy Chestnut helpfully noted that Longshanks appeared too much like a "common villain" so hopefully he doesn't seen so in this chapter. Even though he was plain evil in the film XD_

_Anyway, review and enjoy!_

Chapter Seventeen

Written Letters and Hushed Whispers

A shady figure scurried furtively across the courtyard.

Their hooded head glanced left and right before they hid from view behind a stable door. Panting, Meghan leaned against the wall and allowed to gather her senses. The smell of horses filled her nose. It was nearing twelve, and Spencer ought to be on his way any minute. To pass the time, Meghan settled herself on a bundle of hay, hidden from view and began idly picking at her nails.

The lad mustn't be late.

There was a creak. A flutter of wings across the stable suggested somebody had entered. Cautiously, Meghan craned her head above the fence she was hidden by. To her relief she saw Spencer walking uncertainly down the stables.

'Here,' whispered Meghan, waving a hand. Spencer saw it and wandered over, his fist holding a clenched scrap of parchment, a small leather box and a battered quill.

'Good, you made it,' said Meghan distractedly as she scraped back her red hair. She felt Spencer's uncertainty, and this struck her as ominous. Had someone seen him?

'We ought to do this quick,' murmured Spencer. Meghan nodded and urged for him to start writing.

'Where to begin?' she said, glancing wistfully ahead of her. She paused momentarily as she watched a blackbird fly out of rafters into the morning sun. " ' My dearest Stephen",' she began as Spencer scratched away, ' "one who writes this letter is a friend of mine but it is my voice which speaks. I am alive my love. After that night I was taken to an English Lord for his prize. Life was dark and I bore a bastard son. But after four more years I managed to escape and I returned to our village, only to discover you had sailed to Scotland. I was forced to return back to the fucking Lord due to a threat but I could only take so much. Knowing that you lived, I ended up killing the Lord. I then travelled to London with the lord's general, Latham to inform the King. I am pretending to be this general's wife and he promises me that I will see you soon - but I am having my doubts. So I send you this by my friend. I wait for you always. My love has never wavered, it has driven me thus far, Meghan." '

Meghan paused and glanced at Spencer, waiting for him to finish writing. He then folded it and sealed it with wax.

'Thank you,' said Meghan, 'is it all in?'

Spencer nodded silently and packed away the melted wax and candle into the box. He snapped it shut and looked seriously at his companion.

'I leave for Scotland on the morrow, Meghan …. It won't be easy but Stephen will get this letter.'

Meghan observed him long and hard. Overwhelmed with gratitude, she wrapped her arms around the young lad and pulled him close.

'Thank you,' she said to him, her voice muffled with tears. 'May God go with you. Be careful, love.'

----------------

'I bring surprising news, your majesty.'

A cruel, cutting voice rang out in the King's throne room. Latham stepped from the shadows, his eyes dancing with a mirthless malice. Longshanks lifted his head.

'Which is?' he rasped, as he idly caressed a goblet of wine.

'I have been informed that Meghan is to be sending a letter to her peasant husband, when Princess Isabelle travels to Scotland.'

'Who told you this?' enquired Longshanks, sitting up in his throne. The dim candlelight shone across his face.

'Hamilton … he overhead a discussion between Meghan and a young soldier named Spencer four nights ago.'

'Spencer? He is that swine of a boy who interrupted my court. It was wise of Hamilton to tell you,' sneered the old king, ignoring the wheezing coughs which brewed in his chest, 'if I had my way that Eire girl would be slaughtered for her heresy. Murder of an English Lord is a high crime.' His face then split into a malevolent grin and both men started laughing. It rang out ominously across the cold walls of the chamber.

'I saw it coming,' said Latham, 'for years I had given Aldrich what he had deemed my counsel, but in the end it weakened him. It broke him. I persuaded him to make Meghan's guard. She began to trust me … I learnt much, so I took advantage of her disdain towards Lord Aldrich. On the night he was killed, I persuaded him to sleep with her. Of course, that woman is as predictable as night and day and she murdered the old fool. But the main reason for her actions was that she knew her peasant husband was alive. Anyhow it is no matter, for it still allows me to replace Lord Aldrich – it was agreed between you and me, I would be granted his title.' Latham swept over and stood beside the King. Both men exchanged pleased looks.

'Precisely,' replied Longshanks thinly, toasting Latham's remark, 'you are a man ... of honour and fine cunning. You have done well in covering this murder and biding your time," his lips quirked into a smile. "What is your plan for the Irish girl?"

'She's not my concern,' said Latham remorselessly, 'and this Spencer will be arrested when he reaches Scotland," he risked a grin, "he's a fool, sire."

'Yet courageous for willing to help this girl?' insisted Longshanks, eyeing Latham with his steely eyes.

'Not in the slightest, your majesty,' said Latham curtly, accepting a goblet of wine from the old king, 'but if this Stephen knows the contents of this letter, then so will Wallace. He will get the impression we are holding this Stephen's wife captive,' his voice dropped a level, 'and what if Wallace knows of the Irish conscripts and the French mercenaries whom you assembled?'

Longshanks studied Latham's serious face for a few moments.

'He will not know. Sending the wife of my son, to beg a truce I am partly sure he will accept the generous er … offerings,' said Longshanks lightly, 'if not then it simply gives us more time for our summoned troops to land ashore.'

'Forgive me, sire but Wallace will not accept. What ought I to do with Meghan?'

'Dispose of her any way you wish …' Longshanks said listlessly, tracing a thumb around the hilt of his goblet, 'The boy will be arrested in York. But should I bring him back to London?'

'No,' answered Latham, a ruthless smile curled his lips, 'bring him as far as Nottingham. Bring the Irish girl too and both will be hanged for their treason."

Longshanks gave a sharp laugh but this transgressed into throaty coughs. His grasp on the goblet slipped and sloshes of wine poured onto his tunic. Latham stepped forth to help, but the old king waved him away.

'Leave me, Latham," wheezed Longshanks, thumping his chest with his gnarled hands. For a moment the coldness left his eyes, and worry flashed through them; he was dying … steadily dying. He immediately abandoned these thoughts, and looked up at Latham with a slick smile. "You toy with your victims," he said slowly, between suppressed coughs, "certainly I do, for this is where her foolery … has brought her. Both will die at the nick?"

Latham's face simpered at being asked for an opinion from his King. It boosted his blind hope that he would gain more than wealth from Longshanks; the King's esteem was worth a thousand estates and hereditary titles.

"Yes," he replied steadily. "They shall." He raised his goblet. "To King Edward, Hammer of the Scots." Longshanks laughed wheezily in appreciation and both men clanked their goblets together in toast.


	18. York

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **_Updated and rewritten. And I know this chapter is very looooooooooong and a bit drabbly. But I'm now back in my "Braveheart muse". Please review, constructive criticism … even better!_

Chapter Eighteen

York.

The North. It was wilder than the flat lowlands of England, each field and plain of grass was dominated by spiraling rivers, springs and hills rising from the ground like giant mole hills. Spencer's wonder about the Scots grew as he rode alongside the Princess' carriage.

He had heard the men had red hair, wore kilts, painted their bodies blue, showed their buttocks in battle and won victories, even without the need of heavy armour or cavalry. Their tactics maybe primitive but Spencer couldn't help but feel admiration towards these wild warriors.

On the fifth week of marching, he overheard his commander Hamilton state York was only a mile ahead. Spencer, along with a few soldiers he knew, swapped relieved smiles. He wondered what state the city would be in now that Wallace had sacked it.

Would it be burnt? In ruins? Would the Scots be cooking the bodies of their victims on spits?

He suppressed a laugh at this thought, having heard it voiced from a naive solider earlier.

The Englishman's perception of the Scots was detestably laughable.

'Halt.'

Hamilton's voice rang out and Spencer glanced up and saw the carriage stop. He then looked at where his fellow comrades were staring – York. To his surprise, the city remained untouched, there was not a soul about save for a group of grubby men standing outside the walls, wearing what appeared to be a skirt.

So these were the Scots.

They eyed the congregation closely and one suddenly shouted - 'William! William, a royal entourage comes, flying banners of truce, with the standards of Longshanks himself!'

Spencer felt a swooping sensation in his stomach and his right hand clenched Meghan's letter.

Vaguely he moved into a line with the other soldiers, outside an ornate tent where Princess Isabella resided and watched as the great oak doors of York opened. A tall man with feral, red hair walked over to them, flanked by two other men – one burly the other with dark hair. Spencer couldn't help but stare at Wallace as he passed him, rather than rigidly looking ahead like the other soldiers.

His heart was drumming madly. He needed to get that letter to the man who had now disappeared through the tent … But he would have to wait. Wait for the meeting to finish and for the soldiers to be unsupervised. Then, when night fell, he would slip away …

He realised his palms were sweating and he caught the glance of the man with dark hair. He observed him great dislike through narrowed eyes but Spencer looked away … he couldn't blame the Scots for their animosity.

He stood for what felt an age. The Northern English air seared his face and his cheeks had turned bright pink. Finally, Wallace immerged and walked back with the two other men to the fort.

- - - -

Night came, but Spencer was wide awake. The Princess was deep in slumber in the tent after weeks of travelling, guarded by the other soldiers. But he was about to abandon his station …

Careful not to make any noise, he put down his spear and cloak and moved silently away from the back of the tent. Luck seemed to be on his side because the gates of York were only a short distance away, facing him. The grass was wet and Spencer blessed the dampness that muffled his footsteps.

As he edged closer into the cover of some trees at the foot of the fort, he heard the noise of loud drunken yells nearby. There was an orangey glow in the sky, which suggested a few fires had been lit.

Heart pumping, he crept stealthily along the walls, feeling irresistibly of an assassin. There had to be a door somewhere he could enter … Suddenly there was a source of noise to his left –

'_And surely you'll be your pint stowp_

_And surely I'll be mine,_

_And we'll drink a richt guid willy waught_

_For auld lang syne!'_

Spencer flung himself behind an overturned cart, as two men meandered past, singing in a strong accent with flagons of ale swinging in their hands. When their rowdy voices faded, he peeked through a gap in the wood; all was clear. Now was his best chance to sneak in and find an entrance. Spencer stood to his feet, (wrinkling his nose at the stench of excretion piled onto the cart) and began to follow a short distance away from the singing Scotsmen.

"Celebrating already …" Spencer thought dryly as he was brought to a small door. He watched from the shadow of an oak tree, as the rowdy pair staggered through. After a few tense minutes, he crept out and slowly opened the door –

Sharp barks rang in his ears, and Spencer felt as if his heart had burst from his chest. He whirled around; a large hound was tethered on a beam next to great hoards of ale and food (some rotten) in an empty room.

'Shhhh' hushed Spencer hastily but his appearance had been alerted. The shadows of men danced on the door as they came to inspect the disturbance …

'Will ye shut up!" came a loud yell. The door banged open and Spencer made to dive behind a barrel but he was too late.

'Oi! You! Thief!' a large, well-built man stood in the doorway, glaring at Spencer who shook his head.

'No …' said Spencer, patherically attempting the strange accent he had heard only briefly. 'No, I'm not a thief … I – I came to pet your - ye dog!'

'Liar' snarled the Scotsman and he strode over and dragged Spencer out by the scruff of his neck. 'Bole donnae need weedy rogues like ye smothering him. Find your own food in this fort. This is mine.'

'Alright, alright,' grumbled Spencer, fumbling to get loose. 'I'll find me own.'

He was flung outside onto the street. When he peeked up, he saw that he wasn't alone. Two fires had been erected where half a dozen Scots sat around, all looking at him.

'Sorry' said Spencer, putting up a hand and trying to smile. 'Nothing to worry about.' They shook their heads and resumed back to their conversations and ale. Spencer couldn't believe his luck; he was now in the heart of the fort without being discovered … but he hadn't found Stephen or William Wallace.

Cautiously, he approached one of the fires.

'Er – do any of you – ye, know where I can find a Stephen McKenna … aye?'

A thin man with wild, grey hair sitting nearby peered suspiciously up at him.

'No, ne'er heard of him.'

'He's Irish,' said Spencer, remembering what Meghan had told him. 'Quite tall, black hair … er - speaks to God a lot? Likes his drink?'

A look of comprehension seemed to dawn on the old Scotsmen's face. 'Och! Aye, the mad fellow. I know who he is. He's friends with William would ye believe it … but why would ye want to seek him?'

'Well, I have a letter from his wi–.'

'- THERE HE IS! RUNAWAY CUR!'

The doors of the fort flung open and Hamilton and another commander marched angrily through the doors.

'Come back here, boy!'

Spencer blanched and began to run but was grabbed swiftly by Hamilton's fist. He was wrenched up close to the commander's furious face.

'Thought you could get away, eh?'

Spencer shook his head violently. 'No, no … I don't - donnae know what you're talking abou -.'

'That's the worst Scottish accent I've ever heard, lad,' snarled Hamilton. He let go of the collar and Spencer fell hard to knees. Pain soared through him, feeling as though he had fractured both his kneecaps. 'You know who I am and I know who you are. Come with me.'

A few Scots had risen. "What's the meaning of this?" growled the old man, Spencer had spoken to. "Kidnap! Lies! Under false pretences of a truce!"

The other Scots roared in assent. Hamilton smiled unpleasantly.

"This boy is one of our own," he snapped, pulling Spencer roughly to his feet.

"No he's not," snarled the old Scotsman, "he knows about a friend of Wallace's, that –"

"I assure you old man, he is one of ours," Hamilton snarled. "He is a sneak. Good day to you." He began to drag Spencer forcefully past the fires, yet in this struggle, Spencer didn't realise that the letter had fallen from his pocket into the depths of a murky puddle, unnoticed, nearby …

'What's going on?' footsteps clattered from the fort and a familiar tall man with red hair appeared, his sword drawn. Wallace's brilliant blue eyes swerved the scene, to Hamilton and the English commander clutching Spencer to the few Scots who had stood with their weapons half-drawn.

'Nothing to worry about' said Hamilton in his seedy voice. He looked at Wallace with the faintest trace of a sneer. 'Your men can continue drinking; we've had a spot of bother with one of our own .This here fellow has been arrested for sedition.' The commander whacked Spencer in the face and he felt the hot wave of blood spurt from his nose.

'I see' said Wallace coldly as he watched this.

Spencer stared up at him. Now was his only chance.

'William,' he said, panting heavily. 'I – I have a letter for a … Stephen.'

Wallace frowned. 'What?' he asked, in surprise. 'What kind of letter?'

'A letter,' he swallowed. 'From his wif- .'

'– The lad lies, of course,' leered Hamilton, kicking Spencer in the back so that he could speak no more. 'He is notoriously troublesome among our men for making up tall tales. He will not trouble you further.' With a curt nod, Hamilton left, forcibly dragging Spencer with him, his limp legs carving small tracks through the murky ground.

Spencer knew when they were outside the fort, because the hot air from the fires had vanished. Blearily, he could make out the white tent in the distance and the murmur of confused voices.

'Now,' said Hamilton above him, in an oddly calm voice. 'I think you have some explaining to do.'

Spencer didn't answer.

'Silent eh? Nah you don't need to explain anything. I know about the little trip you made to that Eire girl in the stables. I know you've got a letter for her husband.'

At these words, Spencer slowly looked up at Hamilton. 'How?' he managed to gasp. 'You listened?'

'Very good, boy,' smiled Hamilton. 'You should have been a bit more careful to where you pick secret hideouts. Now, Spencer Hinton, I am arresting you and your little Irish friend for high treason against the King. It's the nick for the pair of you."

- - - -

She was blindfolded, being led roughly down a stone-flagged passageway. Her footsteps and moans echoed off narrow walls. Sewage, excretion and the sound of low murmuring filled her senses. Meghan had no idea where she was. And she didn't like it. Not one bit. Her energy had deflated from attempting to escape her nameless captors but that had earned her nothing but a hard beating across the head and back. Her body sagged with pain and the gaoler who was dragging her down this dim corridor, was showing no signs of mercy.

"Get off me," she moaned, weakly trying to free herself from his grasp.

"No," was his obvious reply. His accent was broad and different from the South. His hands were squeezing one of her sore arms, and she automatically stopped.

"Keep moving, love" he muttered, "you're nearly there."

Meghan didn't have the energy to argue and began walking.

"Where am I?" she mumbled.

"Nottingham cells."

_Cells? _Meghan's breath got caught in her throat. "I – I don't know why you'd want to bring –"

"Course you do," the gaoler overrode. "Latham's orders," he pushed her along as one of her legs gave way. "Got arrested for that treason dint' ya? You and that boy Spencer, with that letter." His voice grew weary … he sounded almost bored, as if he was used to prisoners complaining on a daily basis. The again, Meghan childishly reminded himself that he was. "And now you're 'ere."

Meghan's blood ran cold. How did he know about Spencer?

'Spencer? ' she gasped, turning around so forcibly her head collided with the gaoler's bald one.

'Watch it' he growled. He released an arm and Meghan whipped off her blindfold.

'W – Where is he?' she asked him anxiously, pulling away. His potato-shaped head was best viewed from afar.

'Alive …" he grunted. "For now."

Meghan didn't even choose to reply, his answer confirmed her worst fears.

She allowed herself to be frogmarched through the winding, gloomy passageways of the dungeon. On the way, she finally got a view of the place: the cells were small and crude; emaciated prisoners chained to the walls, stared balefully as she passed, Some muttered incoherently, others grudgingly ate the stale bread given to them and a couple of prisoners didn't even move at all. She gathered the worst. She would surely meet her death in this place –

In her haze of misery and angst, she heard the gaoler declare -

'Here we are; a nice cosy cell.'

Cosy, was of course the wrong word.

Her grey eyes swerved the cell in question; it was no larger than a cupboard. The walls were coated with grime from a thin stream of water, emitted from a crack in the ceiling.

'Hold still' muttered the gaoler, as he clasped a pair of metal shackles around her arms and legs. The weight of them forced Meghan to fall to the floor, and she landed with a small moan, banging her head against the wall. The gaoler ignored her.

"Please," Meghan croaked as the gaoler turned to leave. "Can I have some water?"

To her utter surprise, the gaoler paused at the door and regarded her. "Maybe," he grunted. He glanced shiftily around and strode over, retrieving a small cloth from inside his tunic.

"Here," he muttered. Meghan stared at it; was he actually giving it to her? "Well take it," he said impatiently, flapping it in Meghan's blank face. She took it with shaking hands and murmured thanks. "It's not much," the gaoler said, "just try an' keep warm …" he strode to the door and looked back, "… and keep your wits about you, going mad s'the last thing you want."

Meghan shifted about and nodded, wrapping the threadbare cloth around her white shoulders. She was touched at his gesture but couldn't find the words to murmur her gratitude.

With a last nod, the gaoler grunted and slammed the barred door shut. It encased the dingy cell into pitch-darkness, and Meghan sat slumped and still as a dead person against the wall for hours … her mind lost at sea in a miasma of darkness.

------

It might have been the third, or the fourth (Meghan couldn't tell) that she properly moved at all. Her body ached, her mind ached and the ability to do anything was a chore. Yet one day, she ignored the pain and allowed her thoughts to surface.

Anger. A deep and ugly anger bubbled for Latham. He'd lied and betrayed her, knowing that she would do something to contact her husband.

Everything that had happened to her since Ireland was because of him … the needless attack on a village, dragging her carcass back as a prize, forcing to marry an old man so that she would kill him. And in doing so, he General Latham would not be blamed and would take up the title and power.

She had become an unwonted pawn in a sick man's game.

If it wasn't for Latham she would be back in Ireland in the arms of her Stephen. And wee Logan would be alive …

"The bastard," her dry lips whispered. "THE BASTARD! FUCKING TURNCOAT! LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!!?"

Her voice screamed out savagely in her cell and she punched the wall. It earned her nothing but a sharp pain, creeping up her arm. Cursing colourfully, Meghan tried not to think, but even that hurt.

"No…" she slurred to herself, her head lolling against the wall. 'Don't … think …anymore."

She shuddered, and tears stung her eyes. And for a whole hour, she wept for Stephen and her family.

All was lost …

- - -

_Tap tap tap _

A small scuffle was heard. Nay, Meghan surely believed she was imagining it. Probably water …

_Tap tap tap … _the sound continued. It was needless, annoying and pointless because everything was lost.

Meghan glanced down from her reverie of misery, and saw small stones being pushed away from the wall.

Curiously, she slowly moved over and watched.

More stones were moving, gradually getting bigger until a small hole was produced. Swallowing, she cautiously peered through the hole and saw the interior of another cell identical to hers.

Shadows moving about the walls indicated it was occupied.

"'lo?' Meghan called croakily through the hole. She hadn't realised how dry her throat was.

The movement in the cell stopped and a wide grey eye appeared, blocking out the cell.

'Bread?' said a weary hoarse voice. It sounded familiar. "Have you … any bread?" Meghan's heart skipped a beat and she quickly sat up, as if her body had suddenly found the use of its limbs.

"Sorry," she croaked back. "Is … is that you Spencer?"

"Yes," Spencer's body seized into a fit of coughs. "How do you know my name?"

"_Oh Spencer!"_ Meghan shifted her weight onto her knees, rapid tears streaming down her cheeks. "It's me - Meghan."

"Meghan," repeated Spencer dolefully. There was a short pause.

"… you alright?"

"I – yes," Meghan said tremulously. "Spencer," she pushed her lips right against the wall. "I am so … so sorry."

Spencer sniffed. "It's no matter. We all die."

"We're not going to die," Meghan murmured, ignoring these blunt words. She began to shift more loose pebbles with her long fingers. The hole grew bigger and she saw half of Spencer's pale, dirtied face.

"Empty words," Spencer grunted, from beyond the wall, glancing at her two eyes which were visible. "' Been 'ere two bloody weeks and a half. Stinking place full of shit. I failed to send your letter by the way … Hamilton knew - ."

"– I know," Meghan breathed, alarmed at Spencer's lifeless tone. "He overheard. Latham, Longshanks, Hamilton … they all knew. Latham had planned all of this so that he could replace Lord Harrington. Spencer … are you hurt, love? I - I shouldn't have gotten you into this mess, I – I feel - "

"Shurrup will ya?", groaned Spencer, lifting a weak hand to stem her emotional tirade. "It doesn't matter. ' Been here … too long to have women winging. Been tethered along a carriage for four days, tortured …" he sighed and threw a stone and Meghan saw bloody holes on his hands, where nails had once been. "… questioned … beaten … humiliated. Only comfort is to think, then you know you're not going insane."

There was a long pause. The realization crashed over Meghan; she felt ashamed of herself as more tears stung her eyes. Everything was her fault. She was the one who deserved to be punished.

"I was arrested in London," she mumbled. "And brought here."

"To be questioned alongside me."

"Mmm." Meghan stared at her hands. The prospect of being dragged into a cell on death row was one she that she was able contemplate with much dread, but there was nevertheless a certain awkwardness in the air, now that she feared more for the life of Spencer than her own. What do you say to someone who had risked everything to help a common Irish girl to find a husband, on enemy ground, who had been missing for four years?

"Did you see him? A tall man, short blackish hair … scrubby beard?" She peeked through the hole at Spencer's form. His face was deadpan, hard to read, but inside his head his thoughts were whirring. Had he not seen a man of vague description accompanying Wallace to the tent?

Dumbly, he nodded. "I think. He glared at me when I looked at him."

"Aye, that's him."

Meghan cracked a smile, actually felt her mouth pull into a grin. She could remember that look on Stephen's face whenever a man glanced at her way back in Ireland.

"Do you know what's going to happen, Spencer?" she murmured, gazing at the part of Spencer's face she could see. He nodded.

"I'm sorry Meghan, but we're for the nick."

_---_


	19. Dirty Dealings

A/N gosh, I've not uploaded for millennia. Sorry for this short chapter, but it is key for part of the story and I thought I would write it from a different angle. Please review!

Disclaimer: I don't own Braveheart.

Chapter Nineteen: Dirty Dealings

Watery sunlight poured into the counsel chamber, illuminating Longshanks' gray beard and the contours of his lined face. He was restless; pacing up and down the hall, forming plans and schemes in his mind, but each felt as futile as the next. Never, had he encountered such a scoundrel. The heathen was like a parasite, sucking all the grandeur from his reign. Suddenly, he heard the murmur of a gown and the dainty sound of footsteps. Isabella appeared, wearing an expression of fixed politeness.

He stopped pacing.

"Ah, my son's loyal wife returns unkilled by the heathen," he asked in gravelly tones. "So he accepted our bribe?"

Isabella fought to smile. "No, he did not."

The smile on Longshanks' face vanished, to be replaced with a very ugly expression indeed. It was what he feared. "Then why does he stay?" he mused, more to himself. "Bloody Scotsman. My scouts tell me that he has not advanced."

The slant on Wallace made Isabella smile. "He waits for you at York," she said baldly, suppressing the derision she longed to hurl at the old King. "He says he will attack no more towns or cities, if you are man enough to come and face him."

She gauged the old King's face closely, expecting to see it blanch with fury to be challenged by a simple 'heathen.' However, Longshanks gave a steely smile, revealing yellow teeth. "Did he?" he leered, wandering to his table where a large map was placed before his councillors. They cast the King looks of covert apprehension. "The Welsh bowmen will not be detected arriving so far around his flank. The main force of our armies from France will land here to the north of Edinburgh. Conscripts from Ireland will approach from the southwest to here."

In the shadows, Isabella's young husband appeared looking pale and confused.

"Welsh bowmen, troops from France, Irish conscripts," he said. "Even if you dispatch them today they will take weeks to assemble."

Isabella focused on her hands, but grudgingly agreed the young prince had posed a valid point. Duly, she dreaded the answer, especially when Longshanks smiled again with predatory glee.

"I dispatched them before I sent your wife," he answered.

Isabella snapped her head up. She couldn't believe her ears! Such dirty dealings! What kind of a King are you, if you can not even call yourself a man, Longshanks? Wallace could outsmart the enemy through cleverness, but this sly, wicked monstrous King was in a league of his own. Isabella glanced at Nicolette. The maidservant smiled gently, to placate the anger writhing within her lady's chest.

"…So our little ruse succeeded," Longshanks continued, dragging Isabella from her thoughts. "Thank you. And while this upstart awaits my arrival in York, my forces will have arrived in Edinburgh behind him," suddenly, he turned to Isabella and she fixed her expression to submissive politeness. "You spoke with this Wallace in private? Tell me …" he paused, moistening his lips. "What kind of man is he?

The question caught Isabella off guard. As her shock ebbed away, she realised - with mounting horror - how the king had used her.

"A mindless barbarian, not a king like you, my lord," she lied.

_My Lord. _Bile coated her throat at these words. She eyed Longshanks closely, praying her answer would suffice. Fortunately, the old king merely nodded.

"You may return to your embroidery."

"Humbly my Lord," she replied, with subtle indignation.

Dipping a stiff curtsey, she turned to leave but Prince Edward called: "You brought back the money, of course?"

She froze, her cheeks aflame and feeling disgusted at the selfish greed the young prince possessed. "No," she answered. "I gave it to ease the suffering of the children of this war."

There was an outbreak of laughter, but no-one laughed harder than Longshanks.

"Ha! That's what happens when you send a woman!" he guffawed in wheezy tones. He supported himself against the table, thumping his chest violently.

Isabelle waited for the mirth to subside, though she noted the fast decline in Longshanks's health. Even though she did not wish anyone dead, Isabella hoped the old King would become too weak to face Wallace … Then, she would tend to her pathetic, weak-minded husband.

- - - -

"Dogs!" exclaimed Isabella quietly. "All of them … filthy, English dogs!"

Isabella was sat in her chamber before her vanity table. Her cheeks were flushed with anger, and consoled in the presence of her handmaiden, Nicolette who stood close.

"Is there anything we can do, Miss?"

Isabella looked at her pale reflection for a moment. Silently, she turned to Nicolette, her eyes bright. "We must warn Wallace of Longshanks' scheme," she said in a voice throbbing with emotion. "Longshanks cannot win."

Doubt clouded Nicolette's face.

"That is too dangerous, Miss."

Isabella sniffed. "I am well beyond caring … If you think you can win, you can, Nicolette, faith is necessary to victory."

Nicolette bowed her head. "I have the same faith you share for Wallace."

"I know," Isabella swept from her chair and embraced her handmaiden. She was more of a friend than a servant - a light in these dark times. "I know," she said in a strained whisper. "I wish there was something I could do …"

"Perhaps we should wait," Nicolette offered, patting her lady's shoulder. "We don't know what the King will do next … so … my lady?" she looked at Isabella, but the princess was deep in thought. Her eyes were focused on a scroll of parchment, lying on a desk. "My lady?" Nicolette prompted, though she vaguely knew what her mistress had in mind. It was a foolish idea. "My lady," she said, as Isabella crossed the room to sit before the desk. She uncorked a bottle of ink with a flourish. "My lady, what are you doing?"

"A moment please, Nicolette," Isabella murmured as she feverishly began to scratch away on the parchment. Nicolette could only hover, wringing her hands in thought. A few minutes passed, and Isabella motioned her handmaiden to come hither.

"Nicolette, do you love me?"

Nicolette stared; the French princess' beautiful face had an infectious, blazing look to it. The candlelight haloed her dark head.

"You know I do, my lady," Nicolette answered. "How can you say – ? "

"I was just testing," Isabella cut in, smiling tremulously. She pressed her fingers to Nicolette's, subtly placing a thin scroll of parchment into them. "Will you take this to Wallace on the morrow?" Her voice was a whisper, wraithlike, but Nicolette caught each word. "Will you?"

It was what Nicolette deemed. A dangerous, but brave idea. She didn't know how much more of her mistress's despair she could stand.

"Oui. I will, my lady."


End file.
